Gunmetal
by Zeff N Company
Summary: One is the finest agent of Organization XIII; the other is a Guardian, the power of the Griever in his veins. In a world where judgment comes in a gunfighter's bullets, they stand together on the blood-red path of their destiny. - Gradual LxC -
1. Team of Two

"Will you hurry up?"

"Patience, young Eastwood; you can't build up three _Dollars_ in a day."

"I'd rather bag three thousand munny in an evening, thanks."

There was a dry laugh and no more. The two men were seated, side by side, on the flattop roof of the _Hollowed Out_. One was down on one knee, and he was inspecting the building across the dirt road through a pair of binoculars. Next to him, his accomplice was humming an upbeat tune to himself as he fiddled with his weapon.

"Explain this to me again," the watcher requested. "Why do you need an overcompensating gun that is made out of six otherwise regular guns?"

"It's convenient," the answer came simply, accompanied by a "click".

"Says the man who has been trying to find his 'sniper' setting for the past two hours… I still don't get how any situation – at all – requires you to hike that complicated thing around, anyway."

"Think of it as having five men in a suitcase-" and then the gun fell apart and clattered to the floor, revealing itself to be comprised of two handguns, two shotguns, a carbine, and the sniper rifle that the man was still holding, "-and one on a stick."

"You're depraved," his partner mumbled, not taking his train of sight from the opposite building. The man beside him simply smiled knowingly as he turned a few more knobs, and examined his field of vision through the scope.

"What about you? You're the one carrying a razor blade on your revolver."

"It's called a bayonet," the watcher retorted evenly. "Better to have both a knife and gun for whichever fight comes your way."

"Translation: 'my marksmanship sucks, so I need to shave a pair of hairy legs to get my point across'." At last satisfied that everything checked out, the man let his comments slide off his tongue with oily ease. "And people tell me _I_ have problems with self-image."

"Here he comes."

And the banter ended right there. The long sniper rifle came up, and rested over the edge of the roof as the man behind it sighted down the scope.

"Mark it," the sniper hissed. His voice was void of its previous humor – of any emotion at all. It was time for business, and they both knew it. Next to him, the watcher did not move as he answered in short, clipped sentences.

"Right, by the table. Receding hairline, horn-rimmed glasses, cigar between his teeth. He's reaching for his lighter now."

Nimble hands swept with practiced flair over the sleek weapon, adjusting everything. All had to be perfect, without a single hitch. They had just one shot – one single, powerful and hopefully fatal shot – and it had to count.

"Call it," came the single, sharp order again.

"Wait… Wait…" the watcher muttered. Through the scope, the man moved. The sniper did not take the shot, listening quietly as his watcher continued to hold him back with the single repeated word. The man moved right into the center of the scope, and then left it almost immediately as he walked across to his associates.

The sniper remained where he was, flat on his stomach with his eye to the scope. He regarded the proceedings with a calm patience, and the watcher continued to bid him to wait. He heeded the call, trusting in those keen eyes and predator's instinct that had never failed him even once.

"… Wait… Wait… Wait…"

The man moved again, just a little to the left of the scope. The man behind the binoculars tensed slightly.

The man stepped right into the center mark.

"Now."

There was a single crack of thunder in the air. Barely a second later, with the ringing yet to fade, there was a loud, strangled cry of pain. The sniper shifted, his arm still stinging from the recoil, and spotted the unimpressed look on the watcher's face.

"… Well?"

"Nice going, Lone Ranger," the watcher quipped dryly. "You hit our Dr. Jones in his little Indiana."

A whistle of amusement, even as hands swiftly moved to reassemble all the individual firearms back on to the rifle with steady "clicks". "Too bad about that, eh Tonto?"

"Him no more pee standing up, Kemo Sabe," came the dry retort. "Lousy shot."

"That's why I have you, don't I?" the sniper countered. His fully-assembled gun was ready, faster in its assembly than it had been in disassembly earlier. "… Griever."

And the watcher lowered his binoculars, hand moving to hover over a holster. He never looked back at his partner, but there it was in those silver eyes – that hint of anticipation; the eagerness for the hunt.

"…make them bleed."

And in a blur of dark color, the watcher was gone. A second shot rang out – this time from the drawn revolver – and there was the sound of glass shattering everywhere. The sniper could hear panicked shouts, more gunfire; he could hear the sound of a fine, razor-sharp blade slicing smooth and slick as a hot knife through butter.

And the gunman rose from his place, his huge firearm now an effective shield as their target's many guards fired desperately at him. He took a step up onto the ledge, and then leapt off the side of the roof. The locked doors of the _Hollowed Out_ rattled a little as he landed easily on the dirt road. His hand moved, and the gun came up. In a whirl of rumbling thunder, it fired upon the door. Wood tore like fabric as the barrier was ripped right off its hinges from the force.

His access was granted, and the gunman made his way in.

* * *

"_He's no Fenrir," Cloud grunted, staring with underlying contempt through the barred window that separated him from the one that was contained. "I have no use for him."_

"_You have a job to do, Mr. Strife," his handler drawled. Cloud glared at the single eye that looked so…smug. "If you want your money, you'll be a little less picky."_

"_I told you, Xigbar," the blond fighter uttered, disregarding anymore tact or courtesy. "I refuse to work with anything that can't meet my standards. It's either a Fenrir or nothing."_

"_Don't be such a hasty judge, my boy," and the handler had a glint in that lone eye as he leered openly at the agent before him. "He's no Fenrir, sure…"_

"_Then I don't want him."_

"_He's a Griever."_

"…_and what in Ifrit's Hellfire," Cloud growled, irate and impatient with where this conversation was going, "is a Griever supposed to be?"_

"_Nothing… but the best."_

* * *

There was nothing to stand against the violent and oppressive shots that continued to pelt out of the large weapon, and its wielder had no need for pause. He had six guns in one, after all – that was six guns' worth of bullets: More than enough to take out the whole building.

It was barely a minute upon his entry before he reached the stairs. He looked up them, heard the sounds of battle echoing from the floors above…at least two floors above, if he gauged it right; that watcher was moving quickly, indeed.

His hand idly came up, and the gun's hard surface smacked into an attacker from behind with a resounding "crack". The would-be assailant fell, and the gunman made his way up the stairs.

Even as there was so little obstruction – the gun's own weight of no hindrance to him – he did not catch up with his accomplice. They were moving at an equal pace forward, and the gunman's road was cleared for him. Each of every one of those more-than-sufficient bullets were being saved; conserved for the right moment.

And still the gunman walked on, through the massacre that was fallen guards and destroyed furniture. There was a shattered picture frame here, a trail of blood there. There were both dead and unconscious at his feet, neither of which would be of any more trouble to them until the two partners were finished with their business.

A gunshot, a single almost inaudible grunt, and his eyes narrowed. So much for smooth sailing on a top-rank job like this one… Then again, if the job did not entail _some_ challenge, the payout was just not worth it. He heard some confusion, and moved quickly to meet the two guards that were just now turning the corner. Two swift strikes against the blunt heavy metal, and both were down.

The gunman stepped over the fallen forms, and looked down the hallway that was peppered with bullet holes. A pungent, metallic scent burned in his nostrils, and he found the dark copper patch on the carpet. He brought a gloved finger to it, dabbed up a bit of the still fresh, sticky substance, and sniffed at it inquisitively.

Satisfied, he let his hand drop, a stain trailing along the wall where he wiped his gloves clean. As he walked, he bypassed the broken window without giving it so much as a second glance. They were getting close now, the both of them. The target was but a few doors away now.

So close…

_

* * *

The man was seated silently on the single chair that had been provided. He was leaning forward, elbows perched just above his knees. Hands were clasped together, and his head was bowed to touch those hands. The eyes were closed in quiet, restful meditation, and remained closed as the door opened with noisy announcement._

_It shut with equal ruckus – as did all these high security lock doors – and then there was a brief reprieve of silence. Still, the man did not move – saw no reason to. He knew very well that he was no longer alone in the room, and yet he remained as he was – silent and unmoving._

_Cloud glowered at the man that was before him, his back leaning against the thick metal door. At last, did he speak._

"_So…you're a Griever. A brand new one, too."_

_The man's eyes cracked open slightly, and Cloud caught a glimpse of sharp, brilliant silver – the result of prolonged junction of a monster's power into a human's psyche. Then those eyes fell shut again with blatant disinterest. Cloud quirked a brow, and felt the tiny hint of amusement playing at his skepticism. He continued to talk to the other._

"_For a fresh, you seem to have a pretty good backing as is…nice, hefty resume." Still the man was ignoring him, and still he talked. "I've heard praises after shameless praises about your powers. Nothing short of impressive, aren't you?"_

_Again, there was no answer; Cloud was not expecting one, anyway. Not a verbal one. At last, he straightened, and crossed the room. He now stood before the man, where they were but a bare few inches apart._

_At the tell-tale chime of metal, the man finally reacted. Those silver eyes opened halfway, and slowly regarded, with the barest hint of interest, the bit of bent steel wire in Cloud's gloved hand. And there on the wire did those eyes focus, watching in silence as the blond drove that wire into a keyhole._

_A few skillful twists, a single "click", and the heavy manacles that had fettered the man's wrists only moments ago fell to the floor with a dull "clang". There was a pause, and at last the man's hands came down. He straightened, silver eyes staring quietly up into those fiery blue orbs that beheld a challenge to him._

"_Go on, Griever," Cloud prompted, a small smirk making its way up his face. "Impress me."_

_For a while the man did not move. Slowly, a bare shadow of a smile flickered on his face, and those silver eyes sparkled just once._

_That was the only warning ever given before everything exploded in a whirl of swift motion._

* * *

The door shuddered at the first strike. Then it was shattered by the blunt force of the huge gun in the gloved hands. The gunman stepped through the mess of splintered wood, and entered the room. The one he had fired upon was curled up on the floor, a bleeding, writhing, whimpering mess all on his own. It was a pathetic sight to behold, and the gunman turned away.

This man was a double; a scapegoat for their real target. It was all clear to see, now – the target had known they were coming.

He found the next door, and took a step toward it. His gun came up immediately as that door was thrown open, and a brilliant rattle of gunfire exploded out like burning rain. The injured man in the corner barely had time to save himself before he went screaming to his death, and the gunman hissed as he felt one stray shot get pass his shield to nick him in the thigh. Still, he kept the barrier up, and held his ground, the persistent thundering of machine-gun fire assaulting his ears.

At last, there was a cease, and a loud curse. The gunman lowered his shield, and watched the target retreat backward into the room in a fluster. The now useless bulk of black metal was in the way, and the gunman growled irritably as he sent it flying back into the room with a swift kick. He was bleeding from all those shots that had managed to graze him, and it stung as he moved.

As the machine gun crashed into a corner with a loud clatter, he bore down on the target. His own gun was coming up, pointing right at that bespectacled, semi-bald head. He was aiming, ready to just blow that sweating head off…

And then the target was holding something up, and he paused.

The target sneered. He knew he was the one at the advantage now, and was rather gleeful about it.

"You know what this is, don't you, dog?"

"… You've rigged this place to blow," the gunman identified. "Only you would be so insane to pull something like this."

"Back off, dog," the target spat. "I know you mongrels value your lives more than money. You're not the one to take me alive, I'm afraid. Not this day."

At last, the gunman looked up from the dangerous box with its red button. He looked right into the eyes of his target, stared with a piercing glance that made the other fidget. The target's back was to the window, his only escape route out of this place.

At last, as he took this all in, the gunman only smiled.

"… I don't have to."

_

* * *

The chaos that was barely contained within the room caused the very walls to tremble. Outside, Cloud's handler only stood waiting, his smile as confident and cocky as ever._

_Inside, the two men continued to strike at each other. One moment, they were using fists. Another moment, they were using anything that they could find. The next, it was back to fists again. They fought like a pair of animals, both mad for the other's blood._

_Each was the predator as much as the prey, and as long as there was but one slip from either of them, the scales would be tipped with finality._

_Cloud was strong, stronger than any man in the business. He had to be, in order to wield his weapon of choice with ease. The other was an enhanced being, a voluntary guinea pig for the unorthodox experimentation that was slowly decaying his memories and his sanity, turning him into this snarling, half-savage beast._

_The man looked so much more like the monster he had formed a junction with now – the bronze mane, the pure intent for the kill in those sharp eyes, and the single, furious scar that slashed across that face. So this was the Griever._

_And then they both struck out at once. As Cloud drove a sharp sliver of wood from the broken chair into the man's abdomen, a hand wrapped itself around his neck in a crushing grip. And the two of them stood there, eyes burning, teeth bared…waiting. That sharp, shiv-like bit of wood pressed harder, just as the fingers curled tighter._

_Both could feel the danger drawing in with each breath, and still they stared fearlessly at each other. Just as Cloud felt his breath suddenly cut off, he felt the warm trickle of blood make its way pass the wood and down his hand, his force strong enough to have broken through skin._

_Finally, he smirked again. Before him, the silver eyes sparkled once more, and this time, there was a true smile on that face._

_They separated again. Cloud barely suppressed the urge to draw in a deep, urgent breath as his neck throbbed painfully from that bruising hold. He felt some satisfaction of his own, as the man before him still bled from where the wood had stabbed him. It was a draw, for now – perhaps they would settle this properly, some other day. Perhaps… on a much better battleground._

_The man looked up again, and his face was once more a blank. Quietly he raised his hands, and looked to Cloud with an unspoken expectation._

_Cloud stared down at those hands, and then he turned and found the manacles where they had been discarded on the ground. He scooped them up, holding them in one hand, and looked once more at the man who was waiting for him._

_With a disgusted snort, he tossed the manacles over his shoulder, and they clattered nosily as they slid across the floor. The man watched him with a level of intrigue._

"_You won't need those," he stated simply._

* * *

Glass exploded into the room as a hand punched right through the window. Without pausing, that same hand found the target's neck, fingers wrapping swiftly around it in an instant. There was a strangled choke, and the target was forcefully hauled through the window again; the small remote flew through the air, and the gunman caught it easily before it could hit the ground.

He could hear screaming behind him – screaming that he ignored – as he settled that box onto the dresser in the corner. As he left it at a neat angle in the small table's center, there was a dull "crack", a gurgle, and the target came flying back in. The gunman looked down at the figure that now sagged at his feet.

A black market arms dealer, dead by a broken neck. How delightfully quaint…

His hand found the phone on the table, and he picked up the receiver as his finger spun the dial to a memorized number.

"… Zexion: We've done our job. It's time for you to do yours."

_

* * *

The metal door opened with its annoying creak, and Cloud stepped through before it was swung shut once more. There, Xigbar stood with his annoying grin._

"_So," he piped up. "What do you think?"_

_Cloud turned to look through the barred windows again at the man who now sat on the floor in quiet, restful meditation. The man that seemed so oblivious to the destruction that he was sitting in the middle of, as much as to the drying blood on his once white shirt. The man that was smiling to himself right now._

"…_he's no Fenrir," Cloud admitted. "But he'll do."_

* * *

"Give me your hand."

They were now at least a few blocks away from the scene, as Organization XIII now went to work covering up the act. It was all routine, part of a day's work to one and all. As far as the unknowing public was concerned, there was nothing worth any state of alarm.

The watcher sat with his back to the wall, watching in silence as the gunman finally tugged the bullet free from where it went up his arm. Gauze was pressed tightly to the streaming flow of dark, coppery blood, and then it was bound up methodically. In a few days, that wound would heal and leave no more than yet another scar on the man's body.

"Nice to be a Griever, isn't it?" the gunman mused wistfully. "All the pain, none of the mortality."

"You'd be surprised what you live through, sometimes," the watcher muttered back with a disgruntled air. A hand to the top of his large gun, the gunman pushed himself up to his feet, and extended the other hand to the seated watcher.

"Come on – let's go get a drink."

The watcher did not hesitate, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Side by side, the two walked down the dirt road, toward the direction of the saloon.

Tomorrow would be yet another day.

* * *

"_Guess it's you and me from now on, eh?"_

_The man huffed, shrugging apathetically. Cloud shouldered his large weapon, and – pausing to think about it for a moment – extended his hand._

"_Strife," he introduced himself. "Got a name, Griever?"_

_The man paused as well, and then he took the hand and shook it as he replied._

"_It's Leon."_


	2. You're My Partner

The receptionist was humming again. He had his boots up on the table, his chair in full recline, his earphones in place, and he was humming something. As he flipped a page of his magazine, he finally broke into song:

"_If I only had a he-a-a-a-a-a-art_…"

Then a finger tapped the top of his magazine for attention. With a practiced smile, he lowered said magazine and looked up… right into a pair of sharp silver eyes and a feral grin.

With a loud shriek and a chaotic ruckus that was the chair falling over and the magazine flying, the receptionist dove for cover under his desk at the reception area. Before him, the scarred fighter that was Leon watched with a measure of satisfaction.

"Give it a rest, Demyx," Strife snapped brusquely. Taking his partner by the arm, he steered him onward through the quiet halls. "Page Vexen and let him know we're on our way to see him."

There was a muffled murmur, and then a series of dial tones that got softer as the distance apart lengthened. At last, they reached the door leading to the infirmary. Strife reached up to knock twice, waited for the panel light to turn green, and then turned the knob and guided the other man right in. The blond physician was ready for them.

"You two again," he greeted, and with but a weary, knowing glance their way, he looked pointedly at Strife's partner before jabbing a thumb toward the gurney. "As usual – take off your shirt and hop on."

A couple of minutes later, Strife was leaning against the wall while standing on one leg, watching the proceedings as Vexen examining his semi-naked partner for any anomalies.

"… Do you honestly like terrifying the new guys that much?" he finally asked, if anything to break the uncomfortable silence in the air. He was answered with a quirked brow and nothing more.

"Technically, Mr. Strife, it's your fault," Vexen commented dryly. He was now using one hand to cup his patient's lower jaw and tilt his head up, the other hand holding up a small flashlight. "You're the one refusing to keep your Guardian here physically restrained."

"That's because Leon doesn't need to be," Strife countered evenly. "Besides, I don't recall Zack getting bawled at for running free."

"Fenrirs don't bite the hand that feeds them." The single spot of light was now moving left and right in steady repetition as the doctor spoke.

"And you're saying if I die alone in my house with a Griever, that Griever will eat me?"

"Eyes are dull," Vexen suddenly stated, releasing the jaw as he straightened and turned off the flashlight with a decisive "click". The earlier dialogue was no longer of any relevance. "His reflexes are slower than the norm and getting slower still. He also has a light fever."

"I wouldn't have brought him in if he was in the pink of health, now, would I?" Strife retorted bluntly. Ignoring the disgruntled agent, the physician instead swept his eyes over Leon's upper torso with critical precision, until he found what he was looking for.

"What caused this?" He was pointing at an inky shadow that ran up Leon's right forearm; if it weren't swelling a little, it could perhaps pass for a scar.

"Bullet, small caliber," Strife replied promptly.

"I take it you were the one who removed it, then…?" Both Strife and Leon shared a glance; question answered, he continued, "Figures. When did it happen?"

"It was some point during the arms deal shutdown."

"That's a week ago. And you didn't come to me about it?"

"He was fine a week ago."

"Typical," Vexen muttered wearily. Deft fingers probed carefully around the discoloration for a moment. "… Either it's an infection, or at worse, the bullet was treated."

"What with?"

"Chemical, bacteria, virus, the list could go on forever. I won't know until I run some tests."

"Need one of us to fill out his medical history?" the offer was added casually, and in turn answered with a scoff.

"For this Guardian? I've seen him so many times I know his medical history like the back of my hand."

Smirking, Strife leveled a smug glance at Leon. "Hear that, moron? I'm not the only one who thinks you're a glutton for punishment."

The latter merely grunted in acknowledgment.

* * *

"_You're not my damn keeper."_

"_I have no idea what you're talking about."_

_They were in the basement of an old office building. Once, it had been overrun by an infamous drug cartel. A phone call, the right connections, and the dispatch of the right agent with an assisting Guardian changed all that. Now, they were only waiting again, keeping themselves invisible to the public eye until the media hounds left with the sugar-coated government propaganda they had been liberally fed with._

_Cloud was sitting cross-legged under one of the grates, where some of the light from the main lobby above filtered in. Across from him, hunched over, the Griever had propped himself up against a wall, occupied with picking out razor-sharp shards of shrapnel from his palm. He could feel Cloud's eyes burning holes into his head, and chose to ignore him as he dropped more blood-stained bits to litter the floor around him._

"_I never asked you to take that hit for me," Cloud growled bitterly. "I could have dealt with it easily."_

"_I never said you couldn't," the Griever stated calmly. The last of the shards was pried loose, and he pressed a clean rag over the multiple lacerations. "But fact remains that I'm the one who takes less damage and heals faster."_

"_What you have is accelerated healing, not unconditional healing," Cloud spat, leaning forward. "Get hit in the right spot and you can get yourself killed as easily as the next guy."_

"_Not my concern," the Griever replied with the same deadpanned air that never left him, regardless of situation. "I'm your Guardian. I was created to assist you as an agent in the best way possible, even if that means dying."_

"_Don't give me that shit."_

_Cloud rose and turned away to glare at the wall. He was stewing, playing over again and again the events that happened only moments ago in the same day. He was supposed to be the finest agent in Organization XIII. He was the one who could take any mission they threw at him and walk out of it successful and unscathed. He was the best there was…_

_And yet, he had let himself get trapped by a bunch of amateur thugs with a streak of sheer dumb luck. Admittedly, if the Griever had not reacted instantly and jumped in to disarm that cannon shell as he did…_

_Cloud's eyes darted back to the scattered bits that stained the floor with coppery blood, and then drifted up to the equally stained rag that was still pressed to the Griever's palm. That could have been _his_ palm… no; if he had been hit by that thug's hand cannon earlier, he would probably have lost his arm altogether._

_He looked away again, and he was burning with fury. He had been compromised. He had nearly failed. He had to let someone else come in and save him, like some silly damsel in distress. He had been utterly humiliated, and it made him sick to his stomach._

_The Griever was looking at him now. He had removed the rag, and those cuts that would have taken a regular person ages… They were already healing and scabbing over as though they were mere scratches. And the Griever was still looking at him, silent and awaiting his call._

"_I don't need a damn bodyguard," Cloud uttered venomously. "And I especially don't need some self-righteous, suicidal prick to hold my hand wherever I go."_

"_Sorry to hear that," the Griever countered. "But I'd rather follow a stubborn, arrogant fool than a dead one."_

"_Sorry to hear _that_," Cloud hissed. He had turned to fully face the other now, his eyes narrowed into slits as he no longer held back his resentment, "because from now on, you stay out of my way… or I'll just find myself someone else who can."_

* * *

… _I sure handled that well… like a right brat._

A tired, bashful smile had crept onto Strife's face as he recollected the memory; thankfully, that smile was hidden behind his mug of steaming coffee, out of sight from the rest of the staff in the area. All the better to retain his remaining dignity with.

Vexen had requested the agent's temporary disappearance as he went about reopening the most recent – and also the most suspicious – injury on Leon's arm to find out what was going on. Thus, Strife had seen it fit to check in at the reception desk once more, get the latest information on the processing of their pay, and run an ID scan on Leon's Griever tag to update his medical records.

He was now in the facility's cafeteria, and one hand idly played with the silver lion's head pendant. "Pendant" seemed a more polite manner of referring to it – the way it was so adjustable to be secured at any one link, it looked more like a dog's choke chain than anything else.

Each Guardian variation had their own emblem, adorned in different ways: The Shivas, for instance, bore either one or two dangle earrings with small blue-tinted crystals in the shape of ice shards. The Carbuncles, in turn, wore headbands with a single red garnet over the forehead – they were cheaper than rubies and a lot less likely to get stolen.

The Diablos had cloaks of black and blood red, and the arrogant organization sentinels that were the Bahamuts wore full suits of military uniform in royal purple, with sleek obsidian dragon heads for their collar pins. He also remembered – with clear familiarity – the Fenrir emblem: a heavy silver accessory in the shape of a wolf's head, attached to either a piece of armor or an article of clothing.

To the Guardians, their emblem was their identification, both to one another and to the public. They were walking announcements of what they really were, fair enough warning to the civilian populace.

Strife frowned, tilting the lion head to catch the light in different angles. All the emblems he had seen prior had in no way steered away from looking anything more than queer fashion statements, yet none of them had been crafted to look like this before.

_It's like they _want_ people to see him as an animal in a chain collar,_ he mused.

His expression was morose now as he continued to play with the emblem. Out of a moment of wistful impulse, he brought it close and gently pressed the cool metal surface to his lips for a fleeting second. And then he cradled the lion head in his palm, staring down at it with something akin to fondness.

Despite the degrading way it was being presented, there was a certain dignified beauty there that he realized he had not really known before.

The quiet, yet proud strength of a lion… beautiful…

_Just like your owner._

_

* * *

They were moving a lot faster than they probably should have, but neither of them seemed to give any of it a second thought. Cloud was more generous with spraying gunfire upon anyone who got in his way, and not once did he slow down. After the events of the previous mission, he was still humoring so many dark thoughts, and there would be hell to pay._

_Ahead, the Griever was already finished, and was once again waiting for him to catch up. As Cloud moved forward and stepped pass him, his hand came down upon the surface of the huge gun._

"_Don't."_

_Cloud sent a withering glare at the Griever now, his eyes narrowed to slits as he snarled his annoyance at the other. The Griever met that glance with a calm stare, and kept his hand where it was._

"_Just the carbine – if you bring the entirety of First Tsurugi in there-"_

"_I told you," Cloud hissed coldly, "to stay out of my way."_

"_You can put me back in containment when we return to base, but for once, just listen to me," the Griever insisted. "You know better than to do this. I've known you as the agent who can keep his head and think it through clearly, but you're not that agent now. Your judgment's being impaired by your self-deprecation. Listen to me: don't do this to yourself. If you walk in there as you are now, you'll die."_

_There was a single "click", and Cloud was now holding one of the two handguns that he just pulled free from the side chamber. Raising the gun, he shoved its muzzle into the center of the Griever's forehead._

"_Get out of my way… or I'll kill you myself."_

_The Griever stopped talking, regarding Cloud with an unreadable silence. Still, his hand remained firmly upon the large weapon. Cloud was starting to see red, and his finger started to squeeze down upon the trigger._

_Then those silver eyes darted to the left, and then there was a flicker of emotion that gave even Cloud half a second's worth of pause. Half was all he got, and then the Griever suddenly slapped the pistol-wielding hand aside and surged forward to strike the agent once squarely in the chest. The force was enough to send both Cloud and his gun flying backwards into the far wall, the handgun clattering and skidding across the floor._

_He had barely looked up when a single clap of thunder crashed through the air, and the Griever's torso seemed to explode in a spray of red. For the first time since they started working together as a two-man team, Cloud watched the Griever fall._

"_LEON!"_

_At first, there was nothing but the chilling echo of the gunshot. Then there was a low, savage growl, and the Griever's fingers clawed at the floor tiles as he sluggishly pushed himself back up. His silver eyes were flashing like precious metal, and the look on his face was murderous as he continued to snarl like an enraged beast through bared teeth. He had not even stayed down for more than two seconds, and he was already struggling to rise again… but he would not get up in time to remedy the situation. Not on his own._

_As the gunmen in the next room cocked their shotguns, Cloud took action._

_The first round of gunfire caught two unaware easily, but the remaining ducked back once more for cover. The agent swung the gun after them, and ground his teeth in frustration at the lag time between his and their movement._

_One hand came away, flying across First Tsurugi until what he wanted was yanked free from its catch. The rest of the huge firearm was dropped to the ground, and the single weapon he had selected came up and opened fire at once. Three more went down in succession, and only one – their leader – remained._

_Cloud stared into the room with a trained eye, biding his time as he weighed out his options. Then he found it, and a confident smile crept onto his face as he took aim._

"_Say goodnight, beautiful."_

_A single shot, and the interior of the room was engulfed in a ball of flame. As charred debris and smoke billowed forth, Cloud was suddenly thankful that the gunfight had not occurred within the room itself, and humored a bit of amusement at the ironical incompetence of the last would-be terrorists to engage their enemy with so many explosives right behind them. Then realization dawned upon him, and he looked down at the weapon he had selected._

_It was the carbine._

_Cloud's brows knotted as he stared morosely at the firearm, and the sick feeling in his stomach worsened._

* * *

He was back outside the infirmary, once more leaning against the wall while perched on one leg as he continued his reminiscing. The panel light flashed green, and he turned as Vexen opened the door and stepped outside.

"So… How's my boy doing?"

"Lucky for you, it was just an infection, albeit a serious one," the physician informed with flair. "I've drained the wound, cleaned it up, and gave him some antibiotics. Come back in a week, and we'll see how he does."

Strife nodded once, and he and the doctor parted ways, one to his office to write up a report and the other into the infirmary. As the agent looked down at the lethargic man just sitting up, he smirked.

"Will you do me a favor? Next time we go into a gunfight, can you get yourself shot in the ass? It would be a lot more amusing as a story for a bar."

"Your heartfelt concern makes me chuckle so," Leon muttered, his left hand coming up to rub at the bandages that encircled his right forearm, scratching idly at where the surgery had been carried out.

"Don't pick at it," Strife promptly chastised, "Distract yourself if you have to."

"Then let me eat something."

"I thought as much." And Strife reached to the line of hooks on the side of the wall, found Leon's shirt, and tossed it over. "I'll buy us something at _Costa Sol Deli_."

Shirt in hand, Leon gave Strife an odd look. "Expensive, innit?"

"We've got our three thousand munny in the bag; we can afford to indulge. Oh, and here."

Leon looked up, and caught the Griever tag that Cloud had tossed to him. Slipping the chain around his neck, he secured the clasp and straightened it out a little to let the lion's head dangle loosely above his collarbone. As he busied himself with that task, Strife spotted the mess of scar tissue mapped across the Guardian's abdomen.

"… Can't take your eyes off it, can you?" Leon suddenly commented.

"Think of it as sentimental value," Strife replied, his gaze still fixed upon the general area even as Leon slipped his shirt back on.

_

* * *

The air was filled with soft growling. The Griever sat bent into himself, one hand clutched tightly to his torso that continued to bleed heavily. Cloud could hear his harsh breathing from where he was, even as he kept his hands busy. At last, he approached the injured fighter, and placed a hand on his shoulder._

"… _Here…"_

_The Griever blinked, staring up at Cloud through pain-fogged eyes, and finally moved his hand to allow Cloud to press a wet towel to the wound. There was a sharp, catlike hiss, and his body went rigid for a moment as Cloud maintained pressure._

"_Once we're done, we'll get Vexen to fix you up. Meantime, just bear with this."_

_The Griever seemed to understand, and slowly forced himself to calm. Cloud watched the towel itself darken, but at least now the bleeding was not as severe._

"… _Thanks. You saved my life back there."_

"… _I told you," the Griever replied, his voice a little hoarse, "I'm your Guardian. I'll be damned if you die before me."_

"_What is that, anyway, some kind of 'pride rock' protocol?"_

_The Griever did not answer right away, as his breathing grew steadier. When Cloud looked up, silver eyes stared back with sincerity._

"_You're the only living person I know who reminds me that I'm still human," the Griever spoke quietly. "You're all I've got left to keep me sane._

"_Is that not reason enough?"_

* * *

"You know," Strife suddenly brought up as they walked. "You never told me how you knew I should use the carbine."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. Don't tell me the junction ate that one already…?" Leon seemed thoughtful, searching what remaining memories he had for that incident. Then he gave up with a shrug. Strife sighed.

"Fine, just tell me – how did you get to know so much about my gun?"

"Simple," Leon quipped dryly. "I just watch you, for as often as I can."

Strife leered. "What are you, some kind of weird stalker?"

"You can't stalk the fully aware. Can we go eat now?"

Strife guffawed once, and shook his head as he led the way forward. "What do you want?"

"Meat. Either rare or medium rare."

"What kind?"

"Any."

"As always."

As they left the building, Leon took a moment to send Demyx screaming for his hiding place one more time.

* * *

"_If we're going to work together, we'll need to have a compromise."_

_The Griever looked up, taking in the serious expression on the agent's face. "… Go on."_

"_If one of us is going to be giving, the other will have to give back," Cloud replied. "So as long as you're going to stick your idiot head into my business, you're going to let me take care of you. You're going to _trust_ me to take care of you, for everything."_

_There was a pause, and then the Griever quirked a brow. "… This is your idea of a 'fair exchange'?"_

"_That's what partners do. Do we have a deal?"_

_The Griever regarded Cloud with contemplative silence. At last, he smiled, and nodded once._

"_We have a __deal."_


	3. The Birthday Present

"_Hey, CLOUD!"_

"_Oof!"_

_It had been barely two seconds since he had stepped through the doors. Two seconds, and already he had been ambushed. Still, it wasn't something he found worth complaining about. Caught in a rather affectionate hug, Cloud sighed. His smile was relaxed as he knew exactly who it was that had latched onto him with the fervor of an oversized – and overage – puppy._

"_Hey, Zack," he greeted, which spurred the other into rubbing roughly at his spikes of hair in a boisterous show of cheer. "You're in a good mood. Is something up?"_

_The addressed man stopped his action immediately, spun the other around, and looked him in the eye._

"_Please tell me you're kidding." When Cloud only blinked, the man let go of him and slapped his forehead with a loud, dramatic exclamation of disbelief. "For the love of- it's YOUR BIRTHDAY, Cloud! Here I was, thinking I was two days late, and here you are, _forgetting_?!"_

_Cloud huffed at that and shrugged in a practiced show of apathy. "Come on. You always have maintenance on my birthday, so we're always two days late."_

"_That's no excuse! What kind of friend am I to not celebrate a fellow country boy's birthday, huh? C'mere!"_

_With barely a chance to comprehend the situation, the blond found himself snagged by his belt, and then he was unceremoniously tossed over Zack's shoulder as the infamous Fenrir sped down the hall. All around, both agents and Guardians ignored the display that was now considered to be passing ritual._

_As they passed the front desk, Zack waved at the receptionist without breaking stride. The receptionist in question never looked up from the book he had out on the table, and flipped the page as Zack shot through the entrance and out the building. As they rounded a corner, Zack continued to run down the pavement as the civilians dodged this way and that to avoid getting knocked over._

_Too used to this, and too tired to care, Cloud propped his elbow against the small of the older man's back as he rested his chin in his palm."Let me guess where this is headed: We're going to the steakhouse again."_

_Zack grinned as he gave his response. "Yup! Nothing but you and me, and beer and meat! A lot of meat!"_

"_And if I leave you to it, none of it will be even a shade over medium," Cloud quipped. "Can't we go for well-done just once?"_

"_And _burn_ the meat? That's just _sacrilege_!" Zack yelped indignantly. "You can't appreciate the natural flavor if all you taste is the sauce! Hey, pops – DUCK!"_

_The old man barely dodged in time as the pair dashed on by, and Cloud watched as the elderly character hobbled along his way as though it were nothing out of the ordinary._

"… _Tell me again," he started, "why do I let you do this to me?"_

"_It's tradition."_

* * *

Strife took a moment to pull his keychain out, shaking the ring until he found his door key. That key went into the slot, turned, and he swung the door open. Stepping inside, he swiftly shut the door behind him as he slipped out of his shoes.

"How is it every time I come home, you're walking around with no shirt again?"

Leon looked up, his expression bored. Sure enough, the brunet was idly wandering his surroundings, bare-chested and as indifferent about it as ever. His Griever tag still dangled above his collarbone and swung with the momentum as his arm came up to scratch lazily behind his neck.

"Have I told you yet how constraining I find it, or did I forget…?"

"No, you told me that one already." And Strife crossed the room and extended a brown paper bag in Leon's direction. "Here: brought you an early dinner."

"Rare or medium rare?" was the immediate question as the brunet took the bag and unfolded the top.

"Medium rare – it's only way for it to survive long enough to get here."

Leon sniffed tentatively at the contents, and finally reached inside and pulled out a small pink steak, its center still a warm red. With no further comment, he bit into it and tore a chunk off. Strife settled upon the couch opposite the brunet's position, and watched him eat.

"… You know," he finally brought up again. "If I just buy it raw from the market, we won't have that problem."

"I'm not an animal," Leon protested distractedly, already reaching for his second piece. "Only animals will take it raw. And we both know you're a lousy cook."

"Then you'll have to go with medium rare," was the conclusion. Checking his watch, Strife got up again and strolled to the separate rooms. At last, he found Leon's shirt discarded carelessly, draped over and barely hanging on to a cupboard knob. Finding the jacket flopped in a misshapen pile under the study desk, he brought both back out with him into the living room. As he passed the other, he dropped the articles of clothing onto the carpet. "When you're done, get dressed. I'm taking you back to the facility."

Leon quirked a brow and swallowed before asking: "What's going on?"

"I have something that will take me all night," Strife explained, earning an understanding nod from the other, "and you know the protocol: I'm not allowed to leave you without supervision for that long."

"You're also supposed to keep me manacled when I'm not working, but that hasn't stopped you," the brunet pointed out casually. Flicking a last bite of meat into the air, he caught it between his teeth as it arced back down, before letting it slide into his mouth.

"Those are two entirely different things altogether. Now quit fooling around, I'm in a hurry here." As Leon obliged him and went on eating with no more fancy maneuvers, he added, "And try to behave yourself, will you?"

All he got in answer was the deliberate sounds of the other chewing on his steaks. Strife watched him for a little longer, and then tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

There was a loud swallowing noise, followed by a grunt. "I know what you're thinking. You miss being able to actually sit in a public eating house without the need to bag anything outside of some really good leftovers."

"You know if I could bring you into those places without raising any chaos, I would," Strife replied. He could feel the other leveling a quiet, condescending stare at him.

"… I'm not a Fenrir, Strife."

"Of course not – you're a Griever."

"You treat me as though I were a Fenrir, as though 'Griever' is just a label. But the truth is, the world doesn't share your view, for the sake of their own safety. You'll have to get used to it eventually-"

"Let's finish this talk some other time," Strife declared, cutting his Guardian off with finality. "Are you done eating? Then put your tops on and let's go."

* * *

"_You know, Zack, you didn't really have to do this…"_

"_Sure I did! What's a birthday without the birthday present, eh?"_

"_No, really, you didn't have to-" And Cloud raised the belt he was holding, and flicked the end back and forth. "-I still have the other four you gave me, all brand new."_

"_A man can't have too many belts!"_

"_I can."_

_At the crushed look on Zack's face, Cloud sighed and batted his head lightly with the belt's leather strap. "Fine, I like it! Enough with the kicked puppy expressions, already…!"_

_And in a moment, the man was grinning again as he jumped to his feet and assumed a squatting position. The two had driven out into the outskirts, and were enjoying the view from the cliff's edge; as they always did on this day each year._

"… _Y'know what you and me need to do?" Zack suddenly asked. Before Cloud could get a word in, he continued confidently, "we need to retire."_

_Cloud snorted and was ignored as Zack went on, sweeping his hand with dramatic flair over the cityscape below them._

"_You and me – we'll get out of the killing business, and we'll go get jobs doing other stuff… Hey! We could get jobs doing all sorts of stuff! Odd jobs – that's what we'll do!"_

"… _You're serious," the blond cut in as gently as he could. "You want to give up all that you've got – right now – to be a handyman?"_

_Zack did not answer right away, as he stared up at the starlit sky, wistful and at peace with himself._

"_The sooner I retire, the sooner I get to say goodbye to the junction in my noggin. The sooner I stop being a Guardian… the sooner I get to keep my memories. And I want to make lots of memories of a good, happy life… and I want to remember it all."_

_At last, he turned back, tilting his head as he looked upon his younger friend._

"_What do you say? You wanna come with me? You know… get out, get our own lives, get some nice girls, get hitched, get kids, get stress from raising kids… The works!_

"_Want to help me make some good memories for keeps, Cloud?"_

* * *

He was back on the cliff, and staring out at the cityscape below. This time, and the times of before for a while now, he was alone.

First Tsurugi lay reverently beside him, where he had known his former accomplice to sit. He continued to look out into the distance, as the wind blew in his face. He continued to dwell upon his thoughts.

"… _I'm not a Fenrir, Strife… You treat me as though I were a Fenrir…"_

… Did he really?

Strife sighed deeply, his warm breath spilling over his arms as he remained unmoving from his seat on the ground. As he humored his memories, he could almost see Zack again, squatting by the cliff's edge and talking animatedly about leaving Organization XIII to carve out his own life. He could see the man's energy, his eagerness to please those he cared about, and, especially, Strife could see his devotion.

He tried to think of Leon, and of what he saw in him. Beside "Zack", he could just see Leon, but the immaterial, imagined form of Leon was so much more muted than the "other" as "he" sat there, calm and quiet. "Zack" was still moving excitedly, but "Leon" was hunched over, meditating and listening to everything around "him". "Both" were expressing an appreciation for the relaxing peace about "them", but "they" were polar opposites of one another.

Strife closed his eyes for a moment, simply thinking on a different sort of scenario. And when he opened his eyes, he saw "Zack" throw back "his" head and laugh without restraint. It was not a hysterical laugh, but one that was simply so full of joy, that it was infectious. It made you want to laugh with "him".

And then he spotted "Leon". "He" was still so quiet, the look on "his" face still pretty much a blank. And then, slowly, there was a single twitch, and the silver eyes softened as "he" smiled, and then slowly grinned. At last, even as "Zack" was still openly laughing, he could see "Leon" with "his" head slightly bowed as "he" just chuckled. One so expressive, the other so controlled… just laughing.

At last, Strife smirked and started to laugh as well. He would perhaps muse, later, that his was a median of the "two" – it was more than mere chuckling, but still consciously hidden from sight. They sat there – he, and the two immaterial apparitions from his memory – all laughing like age-old friends on this special day.

When Strife looked up next, they were gone. Suddenly, there was no longer a reason to laugh. With a tired groan, the blond slumped backward, and let himself hit the dirt as he lay on his back, staring up at the sky overhead.

… _Like a Fenrir, huh?_ He mused further. _… Maybe it's because the only other that I could truly call my comrade – the only other I trusted my life to in the field of battle… was a Fenrir._

He continued to gaze up for a while, and at last brought his hand up and over. As his arm crossed over his face, covering his eyes, he sighed once more.

_Would things have been better… if I had chosen to go with you that night?_

* * *

Leon was annoyed. Given any better form of expression, he would still consider himself annoyed.

Still, he sat silently, adopting his usual pose as he meditated once more. Most others seemed to find such activity trivial, but he found it a necessity. It kept him calm and relaxed. It kept him from submitting to his inner, darker urges until the time was right. And as long as he portrayed the image of a calm, docile individual with no hint of any aggression, no one complained about him. It had proven itself effective, as the other Guardians lounging in the facility's recreational area were all moving around without fear of each other.

Three girls ran by – or at least, two ran and one was dragged along after. The Shiva was keeping her group's noise at a tolerable level as she minded those around her, and the Carbuncle was carelessly chattering away in excitement, her hand fisted into the nonchalant Diablos' cloak as she continued to drag the latter behind them.

They were but one of many inter-type groups that formed among the Guardians. Most of the younger, more active ones were jovially engaging each other in games, while the older, mellower and definitely more tired individuals preferred to relax against the wall, all waiting for their summons.

Then there was a loud ruckus, and the dark winged lion within him threatened to disembowel something soon. He spared an irritated glance at the three young men in the middle of the room – all dressed in black leather – shouting at the top of their voices as they played catch with a tiny object. The others seemed equally bothered, but no one lifted anything more than a murmur of protest.

These three were the personal pets – the favorites, even – of the lead scientist Hojo. Only one of them was an agent, while the other two were a Diablos and a Fenrir respectively. Still, they were young for their ranks and achievements, and were thought of as prodigies. Their only true problems were that they were arrogant and reveled in violence.

It was probably a mercy that Hojo refused to let anyone but him handle them, and such a decision was condoned only because the Superior himself valued the eccentric scientist's genius. Grudgingly, Leon closed his eyes again, in an attempt to just ignore them and hope they grew bored quickly.

And then his eyes shot open immediately as their toy flew on pass, narrowly missing collision with his nose as it finally hit the ground with a clatter. As he stared after it, he saw that it was an emblem, and from the looks of it, a used emblem from a Guardian that had either retired or was killed in action. He was still staring at it when Hojo's Fenrir bolted after it and snatched it up with little care. He was shouting loudly and crudely at the other two, as he prepared to throw it back.

In an instant, Leon caught him by the arm, fingers wrapping around his fist and the item that he clenched there. The large man-child turned, growling irritably, and then he homed in on Leon's tag and froze.

"What the _fu-_?" was all he managed to utter, as Leon successfully pried the emblem loose and took it from the gloved hand he had so easily opened. The other two – the agent and the Diablos – stood in wary silence as they watched the proceedings take place.

The moment Leon released the Fenrir he had spun around, growling deep in his throat in defiance at the one who had just taken their toy from him. Silent, still holding the emblem, Leon reached up and undid the clasp from his pendant. The Griever tag slid off his neck fluidly, and he placed it in the same hand that held the confiscated emblem.

With the three youths watching him – with the whole room watching him – he cast both emblems to the floor a distance away. The message was received, as the Fenrir quieted quickly, a look of wary confusion on his face.

Leon slowly loosened his stance and crouched slightly as he raised his arms to his sides, palms up. Then the fingers of his right hand curled… his index and middle finger crooked twice. It was an open challenge, an invitation to play.

_Winner takes all._

The Fenrir paused, and his face suddenly became void of all expression. And then a brief second later, he was grinning manically as he moved into a preparatory battle stance as well.

"I'm gonna enjoy this…" he drawled.

"Don't cry when he gives you a boo-boo, Loz," the Diablos called out mockingly, earning an angry bark from the former.

Leon waited as his younger, impatient opponent sized him up. He knew what would happen next: the Fenrir would initiate circling, and keep circling, until he caught his opponent at a vulnerable point. That was when the Fenrir would strike, and when he did, he would hit hard, fast, and without a shred of mercy as he pounded his hapless opponent into the ground. And Leon knew most of all, that if he wanted to get out of this in one piece – never mind win – he would have to take any advantage he could get.

That advantage… was to surprise the Fenrir first.

And when the leather-clad youth took half a step forward, he struck.

* * *

"_You know, I've never seen you pull the trigger on that thing… not yet, anyway."_

"_My trainer once taught me that use brings about wear, tear, and rust. That's why I just run up and smack people with it whenever I can…!"_

Quietly, methodically, Strife ran the cloth over the length of First Tsurugi once more, satisfied by the gleam of metal that shone back at him. He would take it to the shop soon, to have everything cleaned and anything worn out replaced. He could not keep it from wear, tear, or rust, but he could keep it in pristine condition for as long as he had it with him. It was the best he could do, and, hopefully, it was good enough.

At last, he was finished. Lifting the huge gun easily, he carried it back to where his motorcycle was parked and settled it into the sidecar. He turned again, to take in a long, final glance of the view from the cliff, of the cityscape below, and of the stars in the sky.

"… See you next year."

The ritual complete, he returned his attention to the bike. Just as he was about to mount his ride, his pocket vibrated as music reached his ears. Looking down, he deftly reached in and pulled out his mobile. Recognizing the number as that of Organization XIII's facility, he pressed the "call" button and held the communication device up to his ear.

"Strife, here… Yes…? He did _WHAT_?!"

* * *

Leon was a miserable sight to look upon, as though he had survived three wars and was hung up wet. Blood had soaked and dried into his hair, and there were more coppery stains trailing down the sides of his face from where he had received a cut to his left temple and another above his right eye.

His jacket was gone, and his shirt was so badly shredded, it barely held together by several frayed threads, and the many holes there were in the white fabric revealed dark purple that mottled his upper torso. His left arm was bleeding profusely where sharp fangs had sunk into his bicep and _tore_ away, and the stitches that had once been in his right forearm had all been ripped out without remorse.

Still, it did not keep the organization security from having his hands fastened together once more, as he sat outside the infirmary to wait his turn. Strife stood before him, taking in all the damage that was wrought upon the Guardian's body, and felt his blood boil.

Upon his hasty arrival at the facility, Zexion informed him that Leon had instigated a fight with Loz – _Loz…!_ –, and it had not been until an hour into the fight before three Key agents passed by and were alerted to the situation at hand. It had taken all three of the superiors, two Bahamuts and one Ifrit to bodily separate them from one another, and then four of the collective six to hold the berserk Fenrir back as Leon retrieved his tag from the floor.

The young Guardian in turn had a broken nose, a black eye, a split lip, a dislocated shoulder, and a suspected case of internal bleeding. There would be hell to pay when Hojo found out about this, and Strife was not at all impressed. After finally convincing Zexion to release the Griever back into his custody – which noticeably took much longer than usual – he trembled with barely restrained anger as he unlocked the shackles binding the Guardian's wrists.

"… Do you want to tell me," he finally uttered, his tone low and dangerous, "just what in _hell_ you were thinking…?"

Leon had not moved – not even flinched – during the proceedings as he quietly stared at the floor. Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of the other. He extended his left hand – a clenched fist – and turned it palm up to the agent. As Strife saw what he was holding, he blanched, any harsh words suddenly dying in his throat.

It was a Fenrir's emblem, but it definitely did not belong to Loz. It was dull from a long term of service, and tarnish along the edges gave it the appearance of black streaks through the otherwise dark silver color. Strife knew this emblem. He would have known it anywhere.

This emblem had belonged to Zack.

When he at last found his voice, Strife could only utter a question: "… Where did you…?"

Leon tilted his head to look down at it as well, and quietly gave his answer: "… Guardians don't reuse old emblems. They get new ones. The old ones… carry the scent of their previous owners, so it would be confusing. Loz must have found this, and took it to play with." There was a pause, as Leon looked back up at Strife again. "… It's faint, but it smells like its last owner… and it also smells a little like you. I thought… whoever owned this last was someone important to you. So I fought Loz to get it back before he could break it."

His hand extended further, in silent offering. Slowly, Strife reached out as well, and took the Fenrir emblem into his hand. He was trembling – no longer from his anger, but from something else entirely – as he stared at the wolf's head that rested comfortably upon his own palm. Leon's hand was withdrawn, and he continued to sit quietly, looking up at Strife and at the emblem.

"Did that belong to your last Guardian?"

"… No," Strife finally answered, his gaze still firmly upon the wolf's head, "not my Guardian. Zack was… He was partnered with another agent. I was just a trainee at the time, and he always looked out for me. I guess… he was my first real friend."

At last, the blond lifted his gaze, blue eyes meeting with silver. He continued to explain: "When he disappeared, I never had a Guardian… never found one that I was willing to work with. You're my first."

Leon's eyes followed the agent as he took a seat beside him, hand still cradling the emblem like a precious gem. As he looked upon Strife's countenance, he saw a face that was suddenly more vulnerable than he had ever known.

"… Today is the twenty-first," Strife continued. "That's two days after my birthday. Zack always had maintenance on that day, so he'd come find me right after and celebrate with me, always two days late… It's been a while since I last got a present like this."

"… Are you still mad at me?" Leon probed quietly, earning a tired, yet amused smile from the other.

"… A little, but still, you found this for me... I never thought I'd see it again."

And his hand came up, and gently squeezed the brunet's right shoulder.

"… Thank you."


	4. A Once Forgotten Secret

I'd like to thank everyone for your continued support in the form of reviews, favorites and alerts; I also want to thank one and all for your patience with me thus far. I've wanted to add side notes for a while, but for the past three chapters, I was too exhausted to do so. Now, while I'm still awake enough, here it is.

For more commentary about _Gunmetal_, please check out my journal in deviantArt (link is available from my profile), which I will update regularly over the time I take to add new chapters or create individual one-shots.

_

* * *

The paper was slammed back down onto the table with a force that shook its very frame. Despite the display of anger-driven strength, the hand that shoved so urgently against the paper was shaking._

"… _There. It's done."_

_Another hand – glove black as shadow – reached forward to remove that shaking hand. The paper slipped off the table with ease, and was read slowly with mocking deliberation. At last, there was a show of satisfaction on those curled lips._

"_Very good; everything's in order. That wasn't so hard, was it?"_

"… _Just take him." That voice itself trembled with so many emotions: fear, anger… remorse… "For the love of Gaia, just take him and get out of my sight."_

"_Whatever you say, dear General… We'll be waiting, of course, for the rest of the compensation fee to come in… hopefully… soon enough. Now then…"_

_Another pair of hands, also wrapped in the inky black of gloves, reached forward, and captured those pale, thin arms that, while remaining uncooperative and limp, did not attempt to fight back._

"_Farewell, General. Perhaps we'll see each other again in better circumstances."_

* * *

"… Shivas," the agent grumbled, staring flatly at the three figures just standing before him with a display of snobbish confidence. "… Why did it have to be _Shivas_…?"

"Found something swimmingly wrong, Mr. Strife?"

And Strife leveled a long, hard, withering glare at the smug man that was just out of reach, no thanks to the bullet-proof barrier between them. Still, the one-eyed Key agent stared back with a leer on his face, and Strife once more found relief that the man was no longer his handler.

An insistent tap to his shoulder reminded him where he was, and he dodged swiftly to the right as three icicles spat out of the layer of ice right where his feet used to be. There was a musical chorus of amused giggling, as one of the Shivas waved her hand merrily, fingers dancing as those ripples of frosty blue magic trickled after them.

In any other circumstance, none of the three young women would have fond the situation amusing, especially not when one of their opponents was the infamous Griever of Organization XIII. Yet, training was training, and the only way Xigbar was able to get anyone to go through with it was to bend a little and allow the agent and Guardian to fight no less than three opponents at a time.

And as luck of all rotten luck would have it, all three lots drawn were for a Shiva each. Already, their combined magical essence had the entire floor resembling a poorly-made skating rink. To the irate agent's far left, Leon was crouched as well, waiting for his partner's instruction.

"You got any ideas?" Strife called out, then realized his own mistake even as he was answered by no more than a raised brow. "Fine, I'll just think up some-_whoa_!"

In a swift moment, he dove for the floor, a spray of icicles narrowing missing the spikes of his hair. All three Shivas started to laugh this time, and he felt himself burn with irritation and humiliated anger. Now they'd done it… they had to go and push his buttons, didn't they?

"Griever," he ordered in a terseness that was almost unnecessary. "Make them bleed."

Leon turned his head just slightly, not taking his eyes off his opponent as his subtle body language conveyed his message so easily it might as well be verbal:

… _We've only been in here for five minutes, and you're giving in already?_

"Well, I _told_ you I can't stand Shivas, didn't I?" Strife snapped back. "Especially cocky, self-righteous prissy-missies that think they know everything, and… Fine, not all of them are like that. Yuna is tolerable… Okay, so she's a Hyne-frickin' _saint_! Don't you give me that look, you condescending little-!"

"Concentrate, Mr. Strife," Xigbar sang out. Strife growled, and pushed himself off the floor for a grand total of three seconds before he dropped again to duck out of reach from another careless shot of ice "daggers".

"Oh, _for the love of…!_"

Strife never finished that cuss as a single surprised yelp filled the air. His countenance of irritation was quickly replaced by a knowing smugness. In a moment, one of the three ladies was sliding and slowly spinning across the ice-coated floor, her own expression dazed, confused, and remaining so as chocobos danced in her vision. The bump on her head, though not serious, looked like it would still be plenty sore for at least the rest of the day.

"Good kitty," he muttered. He felt a swell of pride in the display of his partner's prowess, as well as the knowledge that he had been able to match that power with his own.

Even with the ruckus of training going on, the brunet Guardian could hear the blond with perfect clarity. Although he was occupied with a terrified Shiva attempting to freeze his arm off in self-defense, he spared a moment for his silent retort in the form of a very rude gesture. Strife only smiled smugly, and made his move toward the last opponent. She squealed in terror and skated off to get as far away from him as possible, egging him to speed up as he slid easily across the thin and steadily melting ice. As she came within range, he raised his weapon and aimed.

A loud squawk echoed as impact was made, the girl staring down in dumbstruck shock at the single, wooden club that had tapped her firmly – but not painfully – at the base of her stomach. Standing in the growing puddle of freezing water, Strife smirked as he savored his victory.

"… Now, if that were my gun, you wouldn't have any ribs left."

The already pale young lady seemed to pale even further, but remained mercifully silent, humbled at last. There was a muffled whine and a soft splash a distance away, indicating that Leon had also finished his business with relative ease. A loud drone echoed once, and the water slowly drained away. A wave of warm and welcomed heat caressed Strife's soaked boots as it dried the last of the moisture from the floor. Finally, the routine cleaning settled, one of the transparent walls slid up to grant all five leave from the holding area.

"That'll do, y'all," Xigbar drawled lazily, his hand waving a careless dismissal. "Out you come. Next lot: get ready!"

As the agent and Guardians shuffled out, the still dizzy Shiva draped unceremoniously over Leon's shoulder, Strife idly rubbed at his itching hands that were accustoming themselves once more to warmer temperatures. He paused for a moment to allow his partner to deposit the single casualty upon one of the seats, and quickly noticed that he was being stared at. With a hard gaze, he turned back to his former handler.

"… _Yes_, Xigbar?" he prompted, his voice dripping with thick venom that would send any other shrinking back. But this was Xigbar, the man who was never known to back down to anything.

"A little piece of advice, since I like you so much," the man replied easily, still haughty in his standing. "You're an outstanding agent, sure, but if you want to make _Key_ agent, you'll have to do better than that – a _lot_ better."

"Yeah…? Well, thanks for nothing," came the frosty comeback. In a moment, both agent and Griever made their way out as the next group for the routine sparring – two Bahamuts versus a Diablos and an Ifrit – stepped into the holding area.

* * *

It was about as much as twenty minutes later that the two-man team reached a relatively vacated locker room, allowing them the privacy they needed to rest after their training session. Leon sat on the bench, cloaked in a heavy blanket at least a mile longer than the shoulders they hung from. His still frozen arm – coated in thin white frost from fingertips to the elbow joint – was immersed in a basin of warm water in an effort to find relief. The sound of the shower spray finally ceased, heralding the return of the still irritated blond.

"Damn guy fixed those lots, I know he did," Strife uttered darkly for the tenth time in the hour, as he emerged from the steam-filled cubicle with a towel about his waist. "I hate sparring with Shivas. Now I won't be able to go anywhere without a coat for the next five hours."

"What are _you_ complaining about? You weren't the one to do the dirty work," the Guardian's tired, disgruntled voice fired back. Any other comments quickly dissolved into an uncomfortable grunt, and the water in the basin sloshed around as he made a futile attempt to get warmer. "… I think I have frostbite in places I didn't even know existed…"

There was a loud scoff, as Strife retreated into a changing room with fresh clothing. "Whine, whine, whine… You let a Snow Queen ice you up while you _slowly_ intimidate her with the lazy eye, and _now_ you moan about it? Why didn't you just deck her like you did the first one?"

Leon rolled his eyes once before verbally replying: "You _know_ we receive a better score the closer we get to the time limit."

There was a cynical snort from the blond, and the towel flipped partway over the door, no longer of use. "Like that will do anything. I'm already a Class 'A'. The only thing stopping me from becoming Key is the lack of reputation with important or famous people."

"You'd look ridiculous in that trench coat, anyway."

"Thanks a lot…" And for the next few minutes, there was silence as each resigned to their individual tasks of getting warm as quickly as possible.

"Seriously, though," Strife broke the silence again, a single grinding note resonating from one of his zippers, "how's the hand?"

"I still can't move my fingers, if that's what you mean," came back the same disgruntled voice. Another splash indicated he had shifted again to vainly snatch at what little warmth was probably fading from the water that had been soundly defeated by the magically created ice.

The door to the changing room swung open, and Strife stepped out fully dressed, coat and all. Reaching over, he placed a hand on the basin in silent indication, and Leon reluctantly removed his arm to allow the agent to get the water changed. After a moment – a long, irritatingly freezing moment – the basin was replaced before him, and he sank his arm back into its warmed depths with a grateful sigh of relief.

"You know, there's something I've been meaning to poke at." There was a quiet huff – his signal to continue. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"

At that, Leon looked up from the basin with a quirked brow. "I talk to you, don't I?"

"Never with an audience around, though. Why is that?"

The brunet did not answer immediately, and at last gave only a tired shrug that signaled an end to the topic. Easily as stubborn as the one before him, Strife persisted a little longer. "Then what makes me so special?"

"You're my partner," was the vague answer, in turn receiving an irritated twitch.

"I'm also your first partner. So, what, you were mute for twenty-five years?"

There was an amused smirk from the dark-haired man, though he flinched as his nerves woke up at last from their chilled hibernation. "Well, I did talk to my first trainer."

"Now we're getting somewhere…"

"Though, if I recall what little's left correctly, all that I ever said to him was three words."

"… So much for that…" And the agent gave up at last, settling himself down on a bench opposite to watch the frost slowly melting away from the still stiff arm. "He must have been quite a guy, to receive such an honor."

"Perhaps," Leon quietly agreed; he turned his arm slightly in the water as he continued. "I can't even remember his face anymore, but… Even now, I think he was the closest I ever had to a father."

The agent's head snapped up, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, a distant, muffled tone echoed from one of the small lockers. With a knowing look, Leon tilted his head once in the direction of said sound. Strife muttered resentfully against the interruption, and got up to open the locker. In a moment, the music became clearer and louder, only to be cut off abruptly as a thumb mashed the right button with a vengeance.

"Strife, here…"

The Griever quietly experimented with flexing his sore but warming limb as the agent sobered himself and continued to converse with the caller in low, hushed tones. When the call finally ended a few minutes later, the blond sat himself on the bench again.

"That was Zexion. We have our next assignment."

There was a nod of understanding, and Leon prompted him to continue: "So what's the mission objective?"

"The Superior has assigned a Key agent and his Guardian immediate-collection duty. They need to move as a four-man squad, and the other two they picked out were us."

"Very flattering," the Guardian commented dryly. "Though, if you've accepted, I take it the payout's pretty good."

"Fancy bagging fifty-five thousand munny for a few scraps of really important paper?" Noticing the unguarded interest on the brunet's face, Strife smiled and continued, "We'll be meeting with those two whenever you're ready."

There was a series of splashing as the arm came up. Beads of moisture dripped back down from the thawed, slightly red skin as Leon slowly clenched his fist, and then opened it again. Individual fingers were crooked slowly and stiffly for a moment, but soon were dancing with ease. With a confident and satisfied nod, Leon wiped the arm dry on the blanket before sliding out of the thick material.

"I'm ready."

* * *

"Agent Strife, Leon, thank you for coming so quickly."

Both men nodded stiffly, as they looked upon the two characters of higher rank than they. One was still a boy, his youthful features hardened with a solemnity that belonged to men generations older. Beside him, his Guardian – a tall yet skinny Ifrit – was much louder in his appearance, the mess of bright red hair on his head sticking out behind him impressively. Both wore the trench coats that were uniform for Key agents.

"Roxas and Axel," Strife addressed. "Right out of the council itself… Picking us as your assistance, I believe this is supposed to be an honor of sorts?"

"More of a necessity," the young Key agent answered curtly, not impressed by the underlying tones of the agent's voice. "This may seem like a simple retrieval, but we're moving into dangerous grounds. For that, we need support that will not be compromised under any circumstance, and you two are the best candidates."

"Charming," the older agent muttered dryly. "So when do we leave?"

"Once we're ready. Oy, Lee – put these on."

Leon twitched at the nickname Axel had conveniently assigned him, but automatically moved to catch something hard and metallic that landed in his hands with a heavy, stinging force. Both agent and Guardian took in the sight of it, and Leon sighed wearily. He had been expecting as much, but the real annoyance was just about to happen, judging from the dark look on Strife's face.

"… _Just what is this?_" came the barely controlled whisper.

"We know more than enough about how you take offense to those," Roxas replied, though mercifully with a hint of sympathy. "But we'll be passing through the heart of Deling City to reach our destination, and being still within the organization's radius of reputation, the people are uncomfortably familiar with individual types of Guardian, including and especially the Griever. All four of us will be exposed to public eye at least a few times, and it's our priority to maintain calm among these already edgy civilians."

"We were actually _this_ close-" and Axel raised his hand, thumb and forefinger parted ever so slightly to emphasize his point, "-to convincing the council to leave it, but then ol' Lee-boy here decided to play with Hojo's prized pooch."

At the statement, the brunet smirked at the memory of what he did to the angry and childish Loz, but the moment fell short as Strife snatched back the offensive item and held it out to their superiors.

"I don't care how good you think we are. I'm not putting these things on him," the blond growled. "Take these back and find yourself another pair of lemmings to mess with."

"Fifty-five thousand ain't worth it?" Axel probed, not hiding the surprise on his face.

"_Nothing_ is worth publicly shaming a man for something that he hasn't done and won't ever do," Strife uttered back in a dangerous tone. "_Take these back, before I make you._"

Then a hand firmly landed on the agent's arm. Strife shot a defiant glare at the one beside him, but the brunet merely shook his head, intention clear in those silver eyes.

"… 'Don't make a scene. This isn't worth a ruckus,' right. I _get_ it already," the blond muttered, lowering his hand once more. Still, he squeezed the item fiercely as he directed a sharp stare straight at the boy before him.

"I want answers. I want to know what in the name of Odin we're doing that would entitle that much pay, this much urgency, and these… stupid things. I want to know every last detail, or we're out of here."

"You will get those answers," Roxas reassured. "Once we're on the transport, I'll begin briefing."

Finding himself with no rebuttal against the blatantly honest reply, Strife scoffed and sent a condescending glance at the smug Ifrit. "… With _his_ record, I'm a little curious as to why you're not restraining him."

Axel laughed at the poisonous accusation, standing at his already daunting full height. "Hey, I'm practically an officer! I can be a perfect model of graceful poise, dignity and self-restraint!"

"You call getting drunk and setting fire to random locations a perfect model of graceful poise, dignity and self-restraint?" the agent countered evenly. As the Ifrit shrugged nervously, Roxas took the rebuttal in with contemplation.

"… He has a point," he finally admitted. "First thing when we get on board, Axel, I'm hosing you down."

The Ifrit blanched very visibly at once. "Roxy, buddy, _pal_… You wouldn't do that to your best friend, now would you…?!"

"Actually, considering it's you we're talking about, you're lucky I'm not getting out the insulating foam. End of discussion."

At once ignoring the sputtered protests of the fretting Guardian, Roxas turned back to the pair, waiting for the agent's decision. Leon had his focus on Strife as well, as he quietly lifted his hands in silent request. Met with the utter passiveness in that countenance with no hint of resistance, Strife growled irately a final time and at last raised the metal to meet the offered arms at the wrists. Two echoed clinking sounds later, the deed was done.

"… This had better be one really good explanation, or I'm going to pry these off with my bare hands and wrap them around their throats… _twice_."

There was a tired air from the understanding smile on Leon's face, though his eyes spoke volumes about his gratitude toward Strife's feelings. Lowering the hands that were now firmly shackled together, he patiently waited for the hand at his shoulder to guide him toward the waiting transport.

* * *

Strife hated to admit that Roxas had been right about the situation in Deling City. Even as the transport moved smoothly and swiftly down the road, many a gawker had stopped to openly point and stare at the four figures seated in the back. Choosing to ignore the thoughtless comments of the ignorant people staring his way, Leon was once again hunched over, his eyes closed as he quietly meditated. Beside him, Strife was firing dark, poisonous glares at any and all who lingered a little too long.

Despite the current circumstances, the agent found at least a small measure of smug amusement in Axel's current sorry state. True to his word, Roxas had requested for some water, and even though there was no hose per se, an old iron bucket's worth of cold water had been generously upended upon the flailing Guardian. Now, sitting huddled into himself and still dripping water all over the seats, the tall man looked the picture of a grumpy wet dog.

"I feel so cold, denied and alone in a very cruel world," the Ifrit muttered dejectedly.

"You're being melodramatic, Axel," his partner replied without sympathy. "The weather's warm enough, and we both know you'll dry yourself in two seconds tops once we get off."

The redhead muttered something crude under his breath and proceeded to run his hand through his soaked hair in an attempt to rid himself of at least a bit of the persistent moisture. As droplets flew into the air in different directions, Roxas stoically put up with the water that hit his trench coat as he effectively ducked away from the single drop that zipped by his head.

The other two passengers, on the other hand, were not as lucky, and the Griever – having been interrupted abruptly – growled a little in a display of irritation. Already in a foul mood about his own situation, Axel did not hesitate to react at once as he leered menacingly at the other Guardian. "Aw, what's the matter? _Kitty don't like water?_"

"Back off, Axel," both agents stated automatically.

With an irritated grunt, Axel sat back again, and the next time he attempted to get water out of his eyes, he did so with more care. Strife, on the other hand, decided that they had done enough stalling.

"… I'm still waiting for those answers."

Roxas looked up from the compass he had been fingering, and with a nod put it away. "Very well… How aware are you of the organization's history?"

"It was a minor law enforcement group started by a man called Ansem and his six assistants, all highly skilled scientists as much as they were soldiers," Strife recited from memory. "The Superior was one of those assistants back then, and he assumed leadership after Ansem was given a chair in the senate. He in turn enlisted Hojo and Hollander to assist the research and development of Guardian power, and eventually launched the successful variations with the permission granted from the government. When the enforcement gained enough reputation and stability along with its power, it became officially known as Organization XIII."

"In a nutshell, yes," the younger clarified with approval. And then he continued from there: "Even while he was still an assistant, the Superior often handled some of the collection duties himself, including confiscation of illegal Guardians and the like. He had several offices – all of them within the area of retrieval – and often left behind documentation regarding the events that would play out in each task. We're heading for one such location now."

Strife nodded his understanding, even as he fired a question. "So what makes this one so important?"

"Company secret." And before the agent could protest, he held up a hand in a gesture to wait for the explanation that came soon after: "This particular office he worked from housed a discontinued production that is considered highly unorthodox. If the government got wind of it, it could ruin the organization in less than half a day, and thus this secret should not be revealed to the public at any cost.

"The Superior believed these documents had been lost prior, but our informants have confirmed that they're still present and intact. Our job is to collect them as quickly as possible, before they fall into the wrong hands. The problem we're facing, however, is that the area has been reported as rogue grounds."

At that, both agent and Guardian tensed a little in apprehension.

"… So there are rogue Guardians out there that close to Deling City?"

"Correct. We have agents there on active elimination duty, but they will leave us the privacy we need to retrieve the documents – that also means we're on our own if the rogues attack. That's why we need to move as four: two agents to search and retrieve, and two Guardians to defend the gate."

"And you couldn't risk anyone too weak to handle it, yet too liable to berserk in such a situation," Strife concluded. Roxas' nod confirmed it.

"And that's why it has to be you two: you, Agent Strife, since you're able to handle yourself and the mission perfectly even when alone. We'll need that, in case we're attacked by any that have snuck into the building. And the Griever Leon…" he paused to look pointedly at the meditating brunet. "Despite all the ill reputation your Guardian type has built up for you, you've proven yourself as one of the strongest forces we have. And your bout with Loz, ironically, proves that you're more than capable of keeping your head in the heat of battle, even without the presence of your agent."

At the unexpected compliment, Leon's eyes opened briefly. He bowed his head once in silent gratitude, and his eyes fell shut again as he resumed meditating.

"That's all we can tell you, save for the fact that neither the search nor the fight will be easy. Everything counts on the success of this retrieval. Not only will you receive your fifty-five thousand munny, you'll also get a commendation – a step closer to becoming a Key, if you will.

"Briefing's over. We'll be there soon. Was it satisfactory, Agent Strife?"

Picking at the sudden, almost playful tone that crept up in the youthful voice, Strife could not help but smirk.

"… It'll do."

* * *

Leaving the bustling town brought relief to at least two of the party of four. Axel wasted no time at all in allowing his fiery magic to dry every last offending droplet from his body, and Strife refused to take his eyes off the heavy metal shackles until Roxas finally unlocked them, catching them easily as they slipped off Leon's wrists. Automatically, the freed hands crossed over the Guardian's chest as he gave the once-more happy Ifrit a wary glance. His good mood intact, Axel only grinned back. At last, with a twitch, Leon snorted and cast his eyes skyward in an expression of weariness.

Still, Strife caught sight of the eager anticipation that lingered in his eyes. Both Guardians had been pushed around a little too much in the long journey to get here, and were just _itching_ for the promised fight that was coming their way. Roxas, on the other hand, spared no moment for idleness, as he tossed the manacles into the back seat of their transport. At a word, the driver left them to their devices – he would only return later when their job was done.

"Agent Strife," he prompted, and the agent followed him through the open gate and up to the entrance, First Tsurugi held slack in his hand.

The old, battered doors groaned in protest about being disturbed after their long period of immobility, and as the two agents passed through, they conveniently slammed shut once more with unnecessary clatter. Both Guardians stared at the riddled wooden surface for a moment, and then turned back to the open grounds with a new knowledge that they were no longer alone.

There was a low groan of distorted air, and both men dove in different directions to avoid the orb of swirling purple that crashed into the ground and imploded upon itself. While dramatic, the ground itself remained untouched.

"… Gravity," Axel identified with obvious disgust. "A level one spell of all things… I was expecting a stronger Diablos than that."

Then he effectively ducked backward to avoid a single icy dart that had been spat his way. With a gleam in his eye, he spotted the group of attackers just ahead. From the look on Leon's face, it was obvious he had spotted them as well. With a confident flair, Axel pulled out his own weapons as the brunet's bayonet came out.

"You take the ones on the right. The rest of the small fries are _mine_."

* * *

"This way," Roxas instructed. His eyes remained trained upon the opened compass in his hand even as he pointed out the route with his hand. Without waiting another moment, he snapped the compass shut once more and headed down the flight of stairs that creaked with every step he took.

Staring with distrustful unease at those stairs, Strife eventually followed, only grateful that they didn't collapse. Despite the younger's lack of intention to wait for him, he easily caught up with the Key agent as the boy repeatedly referred to the compass to guide his way. At last, through a maze of eroded hallways that had once seen better days, they at last came to a long straight line that promised a dead end.

"It's here somewhere," Roxas declared finally, and the compass snapped shut before he pocketed it. He stepped forward once more with Strife bringing up the rear. As they walked, they identified that only two rooms were present here, unlike the multiple doors that lined the other walls they had passed. As they came to the first, the old rusted door swung open to reveal an empty, sparse room.

"Someone definitely was in here," the younger announced flatly. "Agent Strife, you search this one. I'll take the next room."

With an affirmative grunt, Strife passed the boy and stepped into the room, the sound of footsteps indicating that the Key agent was already on the move once more. With a wistful sigh at Roxas' show of dedication to his duty, Strife went on with his own task as he scanned the abandoned surroundings.

The room was bare… too bare to have anyone inhabit it as was suggested. Still, there were bare necessities here: an old, moth-eaten mattress was on the ground, and a single ratty-looking blanket was a tangled mess on top of it. There were two rusted looking benches all the way on the other side of the room, the larger leaning against the wall with the smaller tucked under it. As Strife approached those rusted stools, he realized that he was actually looking at a desk. A small, short desk that was far too low for any use to him, but definitely a desk.

And as he pondered on the purpose of such small furniture, the realization of it all made him take a step back: The one who had inhabited this room had been a small child.

He turned again, staring in bewilderment at how much more sparse the room seemed than when he had first looked upon it. There were no windows in sight, the only light source was the single light bulb that dangled overhead, and the only way in and out was through the rusted metal door.

_That anyone would allow a child to live in here…_

And then something caught his eye, and he looked back to the rusted old desk. Under it, he could see a slip of paper, faded yellow from age. He picked it up, and turned it over. There on its surface was the printed logo of Organization XIII, and under it was the list of formal titles that indicated it as an invoice of confiscation.

"_Charged to: General Fury Caraway_

_Charged as: Illegal production and possession of 1 Guardian_

_Penalty: Immediate confiscation of illegal product; compensation as regulated by Chief of Staff_

_Status: Confiscation complete. Payment to follow by deadline 1 week._

_Description: Guardian is a juvenile, approx. age 5 upon production, approx. age 10 upon confiscation…"_

As Strife continued to read the listed details describing the young one that had lived here, he felt something icy cold trickle sinisterly in his gut. Somehow, he knew who this document referred to. He had no actual proof of connection, but he _knew_. He knew, and the icy cold feeling sickened him further as he could not stop reading.

* * *

"BURN! _BU-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-URN!!_ IF IT'S A CHOICE BETWEEN REGULAR AND EXTRA CRISPY, _I WANT YOU EXTRA CRISPY!!_"

Leon resigned himself to his task as another loud exclamation heralded exactly how thoroughly Axel was enjoying himself. Before him, the young Bahamut faltered and finally fled with little grace. The Guardian let him go, as he focused on keeping any of the remaining attackers from getting near the gate.

It wasn't too difficult… _yet_, especially with the Ifrit enthusiastically chasing the screaming rogues with threats of impending fire and brimstone. On the darker side of matters, all they had dealt with thus far were mere amateurs. It did not make sense that any as weak as these would be able to continually harass Deling City for as long as they had.

His paranoia was answered swiftly by a strong gust of air that effectively halted both himself and Axel in their tracks. As the last of the small fry skittered away in escape, the two Guardians found themselves sizing up a pack of silent characters of different types. And all of them had eyes that glowed with eerie light, an indication that they were all berserk. Even Axel seemed to give a moment of hesitation before these who stood uncaring for any damage that they would cause.

There was no given warning this time as a row of shimmering ice sliced through the ground like lightning through the sky, and both Guardians barely dodged in time from the sinister spikes that jabbed after them persistently. With little time to regain their bearings, the two were once more under the assault of a collective barrage of icicles and sharp, cutting wind as the berserk rogues attacked swiftly and precisely.

This, Leon decided solemnly, was going to sting.

* * *

Under the light of an overhead fluorescent tube, Roxas leafed through the documents that he had discovered carelessly dumped into a drawer. Most of them were miscellaneous receipts, while others were random notes of reference the Superior had jotted down. There were a few invoices that were of little importance, and others that already had an existing copy within the organization's database. Still, the boy persisted, flipping through page after yellowed page as he continued his hunt.

And then he found it – the one lone document he had been looking for. As he held it closer to the light, he read the words scribbled in the Superior's handwriting. At last, his façade cracked into open anger as those old letters in ink confirmed his thoughts.

"… _To think you would go that far…_" he whispered darkly, resentment unhidden with no one to witness it.

At last, he folded the paper into a neat square, and slipped it into his pocket. Turning, he singled out the requested documents that detailed the discontinued production of two projects that – coincidentally enough – were both under Hojo. These, he slipped into a binder he had brought with him, where they would be kept safe until they reached the facility.

Then he found another that caught his interest, and he picked it up. Skimming through the details etched out for his study, his earlier anger muted into a dull lament at how low the organization could truly fall. After a moment of deliberation, he pocketed that as well.

As he left the room, he found the older man standing out in the hallway, waiting. He was leaning against his gun, and wore a debased, betrayed look on his face as he stared back into the room he had just left.

"… Agent Strife…?"

"… Are we done here?" the addressed agent asked quietly.

"Yes, we are."

"… Then let's get out of this damned place…"

* * *

The trek back to the ground floor was silent, both accomplished in their discoveries with little satisfaction to it. Strife, still burdened by his findings in that sparse room, could not even bring up a measure of curiosity regarding the "company secrets" that Roxas had no doubt retrieved already. The boy himself did not seem ready to share anyway, as he went back to consulting the compass to navigate their way back to the creaking stairs. When at last, they exited the maze, the agent felt thankful to leave and never look back.

Perhaps, he mused, this was why the General had abandoned it as he did so very long ago. Perhaps this was why Deling City itself had abandoned it, leaving it to the merciless ravaging of the rogues in the area. There were too many dark secrets within these walls – secrets that should have never been found out again. At last, as Strife regained himself, he noticed that Roxas was no longer in front of him. Turning, he found the younger blond had stopped in front of a window, and was staring outside with the closest thing to chagrin on his face.

"Agent Strife," he started slowly. "There's a washroom down through the first door on the left wall. Even if the filtration system's stopped, everything in there should still be running."

"Sure, what do you need?"

"The biggest Hyne-frickin' bucket of water you can get me."

* * *

With a sharp yelp, Leon dove for cover behind the wall of the gate, a pillar of fire shooting after him and narrowly missing by a hair's breadth. Cursing colorfully in his head, he did not stay put for very long as he took off running again, fire pelting after him as he hustled.

On the bright side of matters, the rogues had all been effectively eliminated or scared off, thanks to Axel finally losing it and turning on them with all his berserk fury as an Ifrit.

On the darker side… he was berserk. That also meant that Leon was pretty much the only moving target left for any single-minded amusement on the fire Guardian's part.

Calling up more fire by a simple will of his mind, Axel sent it flying in an arc after the elusive brunet. His eyes flashed with emerald light, as he roared with glee at the hunt. He was getting closer now, and his strikes with more precision. No matter that his prey was a fast runner – all it took was a little adjustment in accordance…

The next fireball nicked the fleeing figure in the jacket, earning a loud and indignant snarl even as Leon dove for cover to bat out the persistent flame. Without hesitation, the green-eyed beast of fire prepared the next shot-

-and sizzled out as cold, filthy and stale water was splashed unceremoniously upon him. With sputtering chokes, Axel coughed up the bit of foul liquid that managed to get down his throat. When he at last leveled a disbelieving glare in Roxas' direction, his eyes were back to their regular green color, the flash of light gone in an instant. "_Damn it_ Roxas! _What was that for?!_"

Ignoring the anger in that snap, Roxas stood aloof with the bucket still in hand as he met the glare with an accusing and reproachful one of his own. "_That_ was for losing it and acting like a three-year-old. I thought we agreed that you'd watch yourself better than this?"

Upon realization that he was safe at last, Leon emerged from his hiding spot, the blackened marks that riddled his clothes serving as mementos from his close calls with so many fiery assaults.

Taking in the sight, Axel stopped and coughed once as he continued to drip with brown water. "Aha… I did that, eh?"

"Yes, you did," Roxas confirmed coolly. "And for that, you're going back to the facility exactly like this."

Utterly defeated, Axel threw up his hands in surrender as he made his way back to the pickup point. Roxas turned back to where the brunet was studying the charred holes that decreed his jacket no longer serviceable or salvageable in any way.

"There's a spare trench coat in the storage box. It's one of Axel's, but it should fit you well enough until we get back. Also, if you hide your tag, no one will give you a second glance," he informed. At the older man's questioning look, he only smiled in approval. "Consider it your bonus for doing better than that pile of wet complaints over there."

Leon at last nodded his understanding, and turned to where Strife was just arriving. One look, a subtle gesture, and the Griever understood what the agent had in mind. Quietly, he turned and followed after Axel's trail.

"… Roxas?" as the younger man turned and looked his way, Strife took a long deep breath to calm himself before he continued, "Those documents you found…"

"I can't show them to you – company rules."

"I know that. I mean… Was there anything else? Like a journal, or…?"

Strife was cut off as Roxas covered the remaining distance between them.

"… You're asking for information on the one who lived in those four walls." It wasn't a question, but a quiet statement of fact. Strife did not argue. "I need to deliver the necessary documents first thing when we return. After that, the time is mine to spend. If you still want to know… Xaldin has loaned me his office space to work from. We'll have absolute privacy there."

Blue eyes widened in shock at the young man's offer, and for a while, Strife did not move to follow as the Key agent also retreated to where the transport was just arriving. At last, when he did move, he found Leon tugging on the spare trench coat that was a tad too long. The brunet looked his way, an unspoken question written all over his face.

"… It's nothing," Strife uttered his reply. "Let's go."


	5. The Search for Truth

_Thanks for your patience, everyone – Chapter 6 is on the way even now. I'm currently reshuffling my time to give me more room for it, but I'll have it up ASAP._

_In the meantime…happy reading, and glad to see you all again._

* * *

There was but one light in the dark room, and it flashed from the laptop screen with a blinding brilliance. The face it fell upon did not so much as flinch, instead focused on the text that was displayed in neat columns in a standard newspaper format. Every now and then, a finger moved, coaxing the text to scroll downward as he kept reading.

Yet even as he read, his fruitless endeavors reaped nothing, and his brows creased further with each line that seemed so useless. Though, that verdict in itself was a little unfair; the text was still giving information, filling him in on things he did not know, reminding him of things he only half-recalled…just that none of it was relevant to what he wanted.

… "_Disappeared two weeks before the tragedy" … "Untraceable for ten years" …? What were you planning? What did you know…?_

The surface of dark pupils shimmered with blurry reflections as light bounced off them, and still did he remain focused with intensity on the poorly rendered photograph of General Fury Caraway. The man in the picture stared back, eyes composed of irregular pixels holding so much information without giving any away.

_You were the most loyal of men to your master. Why did you leave so suddenly… and so soon before the time when he needed you most? What were you trying to do?_

_What were you doing with that child?_

There was a dull "click", and the ceiling light fell upon the person and his surroundings in a few brief seconds. Standing at the open doorway, the shirtless character that was his partner stared lazily at him through heavy-lidded eyes, even as his hand idly scratched at the back of his neck.

"…you still up?" Leon muttered dully, though managing to at least sound exasperated in the slightest.

Returning his attention back to the screen at once, Strife did not answer the question directly. "There's something I have to figure out."

The Guardian sent an odd look back at the blond agent - went ignored - and at last crossed the distance between them. He stopped short of the desk, facing the opposite way, and he regarded the unkempt sight of the man who had not even budged once since he seated himself the previous evening. Eyes found the clock that tattled on exactly how early in the morning it was, and he could not help his next comment:

"…well, whatever that is you're looking for, it's probably asleep. Like _you_ should be."

There was a single grunt of acknowledgment, and still did the agent refuse to move from his place. Leon studied him for a moment longer, and at last sighed deeply before resuming his way toward the kitchen. The once still air was interrupted with the clattering of ceramic and metal, and then the crinkling and tearing of paper. Strife regained his self after a steadying breath, and continued to scour the article for any promising clues he could dig up.

There was so little to be found: General Caraway had been absent on the day of Deling's assassination, and investigations had led to the discovery that he had been missing even sooner before. No one could contact him, and no one knew if he even had the slightest inkling of what was to happen to the late President… Or if he even played a part in those fateful events.

He was interrupted again as a warm smooth surface bumped gently against his cheekbone. His eyes moved first, landing upon the ceramic mug that was held in his line of vision, its contents still steaming. Holding that mug easily, Leon was drinking out of another, his only indication of offering being the slight quirk in his brows.

Relenting in but the slightest, Strife reached up and took the mug into his hands. Yet, the second he caught the scent of its contents, his momentary gratitude was muted at once by a tinge of wariness. "… This is hot chocolate."

"Of course it is," the brunet answered casually, his own mug already lowered to chest level. "You know I can't be anywhere near the smell of coffee without going nuts."

"You and your enhanced senses," Strife grumbled. Still, he took to the drink, allowing the warm liquid to soothe his exhausted nerves… into further exhaustion, he realized a second too late. Instantly, the mug came back down, and he leveled a hard glare at the other.

To his credit, Leon appeared innocent as he continued to drink from his own share. It seemed like an eternity before he finally lowered his mug, licked his lips once, and responded almost humorously. "…what?"

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're trying to make me drop off," the agent muttered, already losing his drive to finish the article. "And it's working."

In reply, the Guardian smiled smugly before giving something verbal and at least comprehensible to the swiftly dulling mind. "In that case, either you find out what you want before you pass out, or pass out and get back to it when you wake up."

"You're a real mother hen when you try," the agent commented sluggishly. Fingers moved again, and the article was bookmarked for reading on a different occasion. It was a few minutes more before the laptop shut down once and for all, leaving the two men to their drinks.

"… Leon?"

"Hm?"

"Can you tell me about your parents?"

There was a pause, and Leon took a moment to empty his mug before setting it aside. "… Does this relate to what you're searching for?"

"Just humor me."

At the request, the brunet tilted his head to study the exhausted yet serious expression on the other, the mug pressed against his stomach still half full at least. Relenting, he answered honestly: "I don't have parents, Strife. Before social welfare kicked in with their petitions, most Guardians were created from the orphans that filled the streets. I was one of those orphans."

"…do you know what happened to yours?" This time, the man's shoulders rolled in a shrug before he responded verbally.

"Died shortly after I was born; Organization XIII picked me up from the Kramer Orphanage–"

"And you're certain of that?"

Leon was hesitating now, his stance wary as he regarded the man that was suddenly more alive, more aware; the man that knew exactly what he was asking about. He swallowed once, and spoke carefully. "It's what I was told."

"By the Organization?" This time, the suspicion intensified, and Leon frowned as he started to tighten his defenses.

"What if it was?"

"How can you be sure, then?" Strife asked. He was leaning forward, his own expression tight and tense as he continued his probing. "What if they didn't die at all?"

"I'd like to believe," – the statement was low and firm, perhaps on the verge of harsh – "that my parents would never have left me to this manner of existence had they survived."

Strife did not buy it, did not think to hold his peace then. He was on to something; he was so certain he was on to something relatively close to the hidden truths. If only he was less dulled in his senses, he would have caught the underlying hints to just let it go.

"Think for a moment… What if they did?"

Leon scoffed, fed up and bothered with where the conversation had led to, and he turned away. "I'm turning in."

"Surely you've considered-"

"I have applications for a near overdue maintenance to settle in five hours," he cut the other off tersely, "and _you_ have a meeting with Roxas in six. Don't stay up too late."

The Guardian could not have better replaced the unspoken words of "shut up and leave me alone". With that, Strife was once more alone in the living room, his heated beverage now cold and bland with bits of brown crust lining the mug's interior. Still, it took the agent a moment longer to realize that he was indeed too tired to hang on to this topic. He needed rest; they both did. The cold liquid was forced down in a single gulp, and the two emptied mugs discarded in the sink.

Six hours… He could afford to wait six hours.

* * *

There was a persistent beeping, and the pen was replaced upon the desk before gloved fingers retrieved the pager responsible. A moment was taken for the Key agent to read the short and precise text – enough so that two light knocks echoed the moment he was done – and he reached out to press a button on the table top. The panel light turned green instantly, and the knob turned to admit a familiar face.

"… Agent Strife. Come in."

Following the extended hand's direction toward the empty chair, Strife sat down facing the shorter blond. Between them were papers – _a lot_ of papers: forms, invoices, reports, all penned in surprisingly neat handwriting. Then the one before him cleared his throat lightly in a call for his strayed attention.

"Just as I said that day, everything either of us reveals here will not leave this room," the Key agent stated crisply. "Xaldin will be occupied with training his Bahamuts for the rest of the month, so we should not be interrupted. Now then…"

Picking an unseen spot amidst the liberally displayed documents upon the desk, Roxas carefully manipulated finger and thumb like a pair of tweezers to coax free what he was after. Sure enough, he soon produced an aged document that seemed out of place amidst the fresher papers. This he set down before the agent now.

Strife was hesitant, his eyes darting between his superior and the document. This was too easy and it was obviously not all that legal to boot. As much as he wanted to seize the document right there and then, he waited for that lingering, ominous sign…

"…well?"

"What's the catch?"

To his surprise, Roxas only chuckled, his expression knowing – he _knew_ that the other was suspicious, and he was laughing about it. Suddenly, Strife was unsure of what to expect, even as the other merely nodded amiably at the offered document again.

"Oh, there's _definitely_ a catch, Agent Strife, but it can wait. This before you is just the bait."

"How honest," the taller blond muttered darkly, to the other's unspoken amusement.

Still, the waiting game continued into several long counts, time that passed way too slowly. Then, in a traitorous motion, Strife found his hand had come up and touched the surface of the yellowed paper. No second was wasted after that in slipping it right off the table, eyes dancing eagerly to take in all the information he had waited for.

For a moment, Roxas only watched the other, his countenance revealing not one emotion. He was waiting… and then his moment came, and still he did not break his facade as the irritation on the agent's face was revealed in a fleeting second.

"This tells me nothing."

"What you're holding is the first half, Agent Strife," the Key agent explained quietly, still refusing to betray a thing in his expression. "I've given you recorded details regarding the status of the illegal production, as well as a rough on the subject's statistics-"

"Things that I already know and don't care for," Strife cut in sharply. "All I want to know is _who was he_?"

"And what does that matter to you?" In that single, simple question, Roxas effectively silenced the other as he continued with a second: "You're assuming that you know that unfortunate child, but do you really?"

"With all due respect, sir, stop playing with me," the agent retorted. "What do you want?"

At last, there it was: the time for bartering. The Key agent pulled out another folder – a pristine white with black formal lettering emblazoned upon the cover alongside the organization logo. He held it out now, flipping open the cover to reveal the front page to the agent facing him.

"I have a mission for you," he stated clearly. "Two-man requirement and you'll be off radius. You're free with the time you take, but since you'll be outside our coverage area, you have to handle all expenses on your own."

"And in return," Strife concluded, "you'll hand over the rest of the information?"

"Yes."

"Seems like a loss on my side."

"Unfortunately, but those are my terms. Terms that I don't intend to bend." There was a pause, as Roxas regarded the other solemnly before continuing. "It's either this or nothing."

There was an irritated twitch from the agent, but it mattered little; Strife was hooked, and his answer predictable, even before he reached to take the folder. "Fine; you've got yourself a d-"

Said folder was pulled out of reach at once. "Not yet."

"_Just what in the name of Odin do you-?!_"

"I meant what I said," Roxas continued, unyielding before the furious glare, "and I won't give this mission to anyone but you and your Guardian. The problem, however, is your lack of certification."

Strife paused, his expression confused. "… What certification?"

"Can you guarantee absolute control over your Guardian regardless of situation?" Knowing the protest that would come, he hurried into his point with no room for interruption: "You need an official certificate from Organization XIII to prove it. I'm sending you to a place where no one of professional capability can help you. If anything goes wrong, you're on your own, and I won't risk the civilians, no matter how desperate I am."

Strife scowled darkly, but sat back again, momentarily placated. "And just how is it possible that, after all this time of partnership with Leon, I've not been certified yet?"

"Have you ever handled a berserk situation with him before?"

There was a definite silence now, confirming at once the truth behind that question. Even so, Roxas was nowhere near done.

"You're both the luckiest and the unluckiest agent we've had, to get a Guardian as unique and self-controlled as the Griever. All this time, because he's been concerned with the safety of you and the public, you've never had to even think about the troubles relative to a berserk Guardian. Unfortunately, that means you don't know what you'll do when you're forced into the situation."

"Leon's not going to-"

"I'm _not_ going to slide with any assumptions here, agent," Roxas cut him off at once. "I need something solid – something that can act as a support – and you don't have that. You can trust him, but something _will_ happen, and it will be out of your control as much as his. What do you do when your Griever goes berserk, Agent Strife? _What do you do?_"

Again, silence reigned between them. Relenting, the Key agent settled once more as he regarded the other with something akin to sympathy. "And that's where you're unlucky. If only you had partnered with a more common type – an Ifrit, a Diablos, even a Fenrir, as you wanted – At least with those, you'd get help easily and have that certificate for me in no time at all."

"… and yet, I have a Griever."

"And yet, you have _the_ Griever. The only one in this facility, with no other you can take reference from. All you can do now is start from the bottom and work your way up. Hyne knows that won't be easy."

"… But I still have to do it, don't I?" The question was quiet, yet certain, and Strife – now calm once more – regarded Roxas with determination. "I'll need that certification to get the mission."

"You're that intent on the truth."

"I am."

Roxas studied the one before him for a moment longer, and at last he cracked a small smile before sliding the folder off the table and stashing it away.

"It will be waiting for you whenever you're ready. Take all the time you need." A decisive click followed, yet when the Key agent looked up again, the other had not budged from his seat. Intrigued, he raised a brow at the one before him. "… Is there anything else you'd like to know, Agent Strife?"

"The names of anyone here who can help me," Strife replied at once, his own expression confident. "Don't expect me to believe he's been here all this time without a single handler or trainer who doesn't know what works."

Impressed, Roxas could not help but chortle as he returned to his reports. "You're a smart one, alright. No wonder you're the best agent we have."

"… Can I meet these fine employees, then?"

"You'll be able to meet two of them, but you'll have to request the second from the first and only one I name."

Already, the pen was busy upon the paper, inking out yet more letters in that impossibly immaculate handwriting. "There would have been more, but as of recent events, those are the only two available for your questions."

With a nod of understanding, Strife at last rose from his seat. "So… who is the first?"

* * *

"Well, well, _well_! If it ain't the infallible Mr. Strife himself…!"

The agent twitched, and for a brief second humored the idea that it was all a sick joke being played on him. Unfortunately, Roxas was not one for something of such poor taste, and Hyne forbid, it actually made sense – after all, Xigbar had been his handler _and_ the one who paired him with Leon in the first place.

That, however, did nothing to make the situation any more palatable. That arrogant grinning face was as annoying to look upon as ever, and Strife noted that he still held that same dark desire to drive his fist right through it. Even so, business was business… no matter how uncomfortable it was about to get. Still, despite having that in mind, it took steeling to force the request from his lips:

"I understand that you've had… experience in dealing with Leon."

To his surprise, the man that feared nothing seemed to hesitate in a fleeting second, and that grin seemed that slightest bit… strained. "… You do, huh?"

"I need advice on how to handle him in a berserk situation."

"Can't help you." That said, the Key agent turned abruptly and started to take his leave, his last words as dismissive as his actions. "Cuss you later, Mr. Strife."

Strife growled and followed; there was no way he was letting the other walk this easily. "Get back here, you coward."

"Now, that's just unnecessary, untrue and uncalled for." Still, the man was striding swiftly to keep distance between himself and the agent that pursued him relentlessly.

"You're going to help me, Xigbar, whether you like it or not," Strife snapped back. "Or a certain report goes in to the Superior for 'intentional sabotage'."

That worked; both stopped walking one after the other, and Xigbar turned around. "… 'Intentional sabotage', you say?"

"By refusing to help me learn how to deal with a berserk Griever, you're endangering the public in the potential occurrence of such thing, and disrupting the agent from handling it properly. Intentional sabotage."

The grin was back, suave and impressed even as the lone eye narrowed into a feral slit. "Never knew you one for blackmail, boyo."

Knowing a win when he saw one, Strife smirked as he returned the accusing glare with full force. "You taught me every underhand thing I know."

"Ungrateful little runt…" the muttered rebuke trailed off, and with a loud scoff Xigbar threw up his hands in surrender, "Fine! But you're gonna piss yourself over it."

"How bad can it be?"

"Worse than the cuff-if-he-ain't-workin' deal."

"… I hate it when you're right."

"Everybody does these days, Mr. Strife," was the oily retort. Then came more serious talk, relative to a history: "Now, what I know is pretty much outdated – the last I actually handled him on my own was when he was a kitten. Still a fierce little fur ball of bloody wrath, that one; scared the crap out of everyone on duty every time he flickered."

"… Flickered?"

"Oh right, you didn't know – he used to go berserk whenever he wanted. Most of the bad rep may be rumors, sure, but _some_ of them still came from him."

Strife paused, unsure of what to believe. Not once had he seen the other lose his self-control, it was true… save for that one fleeting moment when he had been gunned down, he suddenly realized. The memory played back in full clarity, back to that precise moment when the Griever – struggling to rise even as his torso streamed in blood – had raised his head to glare defiantly at the ones who attacked him.

It had been so quick – so faint - but he had seen it: Silver light.

Then he frowned, realizing that what he witnessed was the closest he had ever come. It was not enough to go on at all – it was nowhere near, if he was having trouble even imagining Leon going bat-shit crazy.

"Still with me, Mr. Strife?"

Strife looked back at Xigbar, noticing that the man was not grinning as he usually did. This was _that_ serious…? With an apologetic nod, he prompted the other to continue.

"Well, there were plenty of things we tried. One of the more effective ones was the blinker – it's this helmet that dampens the brain signals, mutes all the senses at the flick of a dial."

"So why did you stop with that?"

"Our delightful little lion cub ripped it right off and smashed its entire million-munny worth to pieces. We had to go back to dart guns just to knock him out."

"You used _dart guns_," Strife repeated, his tone accusing.

"Shit, kiddo, we were _justified_; he took out _thirteen_ of our good agents before anyone could land a pin, and _that_ was on a good day. Just be happy we don't need any of that no more."

"And why is that?" This time, the Key agent could only shrug.

"I wasn't there for it. By the time they sent him back my way, he was already scared shitless of himself. Hasn't gone berserk since."

Just like that, the dead end was reached. It was time to turn for another route: the second name. Remembering Roxas' instruction, Strife asked his final question. "Any idea who would know, then?"

Xigbar slowly sucked in a deep breath, his eye trained elsewhere. At last, decision reached, he looked back at the impatient agent before him.

"Vincent Valentine."

* * *

The headache was back, he noted, and this time it actually managed to feel worse. Pinching the bridge of his nose firmly, he silently willed the nagging throb in the sides of his head to just _leave_ already. It was just getting too routine, now, to have his brain protest at him with such precise regularity, but he had left this one alone too long – the severity was but a way of punishment for it.

"You alright, there?"

He opened one eye, lazily regarding the administrative staff before him. Slowly, he nodded once, and the clerk was quick to return to keying in data, rattling off words a mile a minute:

"Considering how close you're teetering off the deadline this time, we'll have to file you in on the closest possible date and slot. Given the schedules, we'll start you with a standard physical, followed by an analysis and evaluation to gauge the severity of memory deterioration in the temporal lobes. Now, I'm just fixing up your appointment with the labs for that… Can I help you, agent?"

Both eyes opened, and Leon found that the staff now had his attention elsewhere; he turned as well, taking in the figure of the blond agent that was his partner. On his end, Strife pointedly ignored the clerk, his intention set and with no room for further delays.

"Leon, we need to talk."

"…" With a loud exhalation of breath – an indication of his frustration – the Guardian glared irritably at the agent as he jabbed a thumb back at the clerk and the application form that was still being processed.

At last, Strife turned to the staff on duty and spoke to him. "Wedge, can he spare a few minutes?"

"Well, actually-" Any logical, technical or other term of reasoning was lost at once into a terrified squeak as an ominous click of the safety echoed in the room. Leon's only response was a tired groan.

"_Can he?_" Strife asked again, his finger playing – a little too deliberately – with First Tsurugi's trigger.

"Absolutely, sir. Please don't let me stop you."

There was a single curt nod of acknowledgment from the agent, and Strife's hand landed on Leon's shoulder at once, his tug insistent until the other sluggishly rose to his feet. In a moment, the two had left the administrative office for the recreation area. The room was vacated – a sign of the busy times that the facility was subjected to, and the ideal that Strife hoped for. Now, he faced his Guardian, the man not withholding his impatience with the other's interruption.

Leon kept his frown in place as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "So… what is this about?"

"You're got all the space you need, and all the time in the world – just you and me."

"… The point?"

"I want you to go berserk."

The Guardian took a step back, his stance shifting from surprised to wary in a split second; Strife might as well have shown him a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. "… What?"

"You heard me," the blond agent fired back tersely, already flexing his muscles as he pumped himself up for a fight. "Let your inner evil lion out to play."

Silver eyes narrowed into predatory slits, and Leon's teeth were bared in a defiant growl as he took another step back. "Don't be ridiculous."

"So I'm ridiculous now?" Strife's own presentation was tense – too highly strung for comfort – as he bore down on the one before him relentlessly. "Don't pity me, you self-righteous martyr. I had to be the stupid patsy to get the one-of-a-kind, and now I don't know _jack_ about how I'm going to handle you…"

"I never asked you to; maintenance can take care of-"

"I give a shit about your bloody maintenance – I said I'd take care of everything, and I intend to do that. Now show me what you're like when you lose it, so I can figure out how to knock your sense back into you."

"Don't-"

"Stop your worthless patronizing and _show me, damn you!_"

* * *

"_Just gotta warn you, Mr. Strife: Vince has gotten rather impatient with his age, and he'd rather ignore you than help you if you're not worth his time. So before you go see him, you'd better do your homework."_

_The blond agent frowned, but followed after Xigbar into the archives storage. Row upon row of gray lockers greeted him at once; there was a loud clattering to the side that was the Key agent opening one of those lockers and digging through its contents._

"_Now, let's see, where was that…? Aha! Here we go!" In a moment, Xigbar was back, and he shoved a black video tape in Strife's direction as he explained: "That's from one of the cameras we had for monitoring the labs. You look at that before you think of talking to our resident coffin-sleeping codger. Room's all yours, my boy."_

* * *

A hand clapped sharply upon the sleek metal surface that was First Tsurugi's giant barrel. The other hand slapped at the length's end, and a timely shove against it kept the agent from slamming the hardy, refined alloy into the Guardian's forehead.

Leon's teeth were grinding against each other, his whole countenance tense as he defended himself against the onslaught of the other. Still did Strife press on, his own expression one of irrepressible frustration.

"Damn you and all your damned _pride_… you can't hold back forever…" the blond agent hissed, even as he was knocked back again by the sudden surge of power he had not been expecting from the other.

The brunet Guardian barely gained that bit of ground before his arm came up yet again to block another strike – another attempt to bludgeon him without a shred of mercy. Any other bone would have broken under impact, but here he held the other easily at bay as his own words were soft and controlled as ever.

"Strife, you have _no_ idea what you ask me for."

"Oh, _trust_ me on this one, _kitten_," Strife snapped sardonically as he forced his whole weight upon the gun and the arm that held it back. "I have _plenty_ of ideas that you don't know about…"

_

* * *

The screen flickered to life, showing a crisp, clear view of a room – a sparse, empty room with but three figures in her center. One he recognized easily as Saix, the assistant of the Superior, and another as the late Palmer. He was the lapdog of several corrupt politicians and kingpins that had walked scot-free from one too many crimes, all of which ended with his assassination that had been conveniently left unsolved._

_The third, though… The one half-hidden by the large Fenrir's imposing frame was hard to identify, especially with that weird cowl-like helmet covering nearly all his facial features from the cheekbones and above._

"_Lord Palmer…" – in an instant, Strife recognized the Superior's voice, coming from a position outside the scope – "we'd like to introduce you to the latest pet project of ours. Saix, if you will?"_

_There was no pause, no hesitation toward the unspoken order, as Saix placed a hand on the shoulder of the person – the boy - that he was blocking from view. Something clicked here, something else was tinkered with there, and when the Guardian silently retreated from the room, he was clearly holding a set of restraints. The boy now straightened, his head tilting like a puzzled dog at the bored man before him._

"_Lord Palmer, meet the Griever."_

_At once, the blond agent's breath hitched in his throat, even as the man caught on film snorted rudely._

"_Doesn't look like much; you're always so full of disappointments, I don't know why the senate-"_

"_Now, now, give it a few more minutes…" the Superior was drawling, his tone hinting of what was about to happen, "You'll learn to like our little kitten, just as we have."_

"_You've got to be joking…"_

"_Saix, the dial please."_

_There was a muted click, and the boy perked a bit more. Suddenly, unbelievably, a mad grin crept up those once still lips, teeth bared in a manner not unlike a hungry beast. There was a low rumbling of thunder, and it took Strife barely a second to realize that the boy – the Griever - was growling._

_Palmer swallowed once, nervously – at last this slow, fat slug realized something was off. "… I'm not sure I like him, Xemnas…!"_

"_Oh, don't worry, your Lordship," – the drawl persisted, even as Palmer suddenly screamed as a blur of dark colors surged right into his abdomen – "You'll find him one to… die for…"_

* * *

There was no hint of that same bloodthirsty killer in the Guardian – the man – that fought him now. Strife could feel it in every aggressive strike he made, and every block that was the other's response. So it was not Leon who had reveled in that moment as he had, there on the screen.

It had to have been the Griever – the monster that slept in the depths of the man's psyche – and even then there were so many lingering doubts. All doubts that would have been answered so easily, if only he could confront that beast himself. But Leon wasn't about to let him; already, the length of his arms was mottled in bruises from the impact of heavy metal slamming into him over and over again. Still, he was not attacking. Still, he was refusing to do more than defend.

Still, he was denying that lone, dangerous request.

Strife had enjoyed their first fight – it had been a far cry from what was happening now, and he had _enjoyed_ it. There was none of that enjoyment here – nothing to take from this unwilling opponent that was anywhere near satisfactory. Again, he felt so… _coddled_, and it writhed in his gut like a rotting mound.

He launched another heavy strike – the full length of the barrel – against Leon's chest, and immediately felt the hands that stopped him from making direct impact. He lunged forward again – forced the other back a step – and his eyes bore intensely into the others'. He was staring right into those silver depths, locking his gaze upon them.

Searching them…

_

* * *

Palmer had disappeared from sight, which was perhaps for the better – the coppery stains spattered over the walls, the floor tiles, and even the glass barrier were more than enough indication of the man's state. There was a shift, and the boy was rising again, his expression deadpan despite the blood that liberally soaked his dark attire._

"_The blinker works like a charm, doesn't it? Saves us the trouble of having to sedate him every time we do this…"_

"… _S-Superior?!"_

"_Don't stutter. What is it?"_

"_Something is o-!" The sentence never finished as the boy bared his teeth once more, this time in an outright grimace, as his gloved hands suddenly slapped over the helmet. An enraged snarling – a sound Strife found all too familiar – filled the air, as the boy wrestled with the device that trapped him as it did. Coppery marks streaked over the slick metal surface, but the helmet did not move._

"… _Call in every agent we have. Now."_

_There was that familiar warning alarm – the emergency protocol. Already, he recognized the swarm comprised of agents and Guardians alike. The boy was ignoring them, his whole being dedicated to the helmet… the blinker… that was slowly but surely… inching upward…_

_And then there was a terrific "CRACK" as a sharp jagged line appeared in its side like forked lightning. The whole thing was yanked off at once; it barely had two more seconds before it was shattered to pieces with two precise punches. Shrapnel littered the floor, and the boy at last looked up…_

_And Strife saw the face he knew too well. It was definitely finer, more delicate – as expected – and was missing the scar over the bridge of the nose, but he knew that face anywhere._

_The boy that was undoubtedly Leon glared right at the camera itself; his eyes were near opaque, brimming over with a wash of blinding silver light. Ignoring every last agent and Guardian that hesitated – each man unsure of what to do – the Griever kept glaring at the camera._

_A deep, guttural voice echoed… _his_ voice._

_**"You… Hyne-forsaken… FODDER."**_

_A single second, a blur of dark color, and the visual disappeared to white noise with a loud shattering crash._

* * *

There was none of that light in the eyes that met with his now. There was not even a spark… as though he was being mocked again.

"… Underestimate me, will you?" Strife growled, lunging once more with a new surge of energy. He heard a surprised grunt, and suddenly they were on the floor, Leon trapped by the combined weight of First Tsurugi and the agent that straddled him.

"Where's the Griever, _kitten_?" he hissed again, pushing blindly for the right trigger and yet to find it. "_Where is it?_"

"… Strife," Leon whispered back, the most strength he could divert away from the task of keeping the gun's weight off. "Don't make me do this."

"Tough luck for you," Strife snapped back. "We're not leaving this. Not until I see it for myself.

"Show me the Griever inside you, Leon."

_Show me that monster that has cursed you._

"Show me the unnamed assassin that sends grown men screaming in terror."

_Show me the monster that has the world fear you._

"Show me the _killer_ that you're so _scared_ of…!"

_Show me how to stop it...and stop you._

"_Show me_ before I _kill _you _right here _and_ right now_, _you damned son of a_-!"

A single, crackling flicker of bright light-

* * *

"… _Hyne help us, that was way too close…"_

"… _He's not dead, is he?"_

"_Don't be a fool, man - you think a monster that can kill thirteen highly-trained professionals would die just like that?"_

"_Both of you."_

"_Superior?"_

"_You – get to Hollander and tell him to recalibrate a new blinker; the old one's useless. And you – tell Zexion to file in the report to our client. Let him know we've done our job."_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Valentine. You may go."_

"… … …"

"_Such a fine specimen, this Griever. If only it were less expensive… Don't you agree, Saix?"_

* * *

"Yeah, I'm _telling_ you! It's like they always pick the wrong guy for the job, if you know what I mean!" Demyx piped jovially. As he heard the other's response, he laughed and fired one right back.

"Don't expect a miracle – do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to go through just to land this one? … Sure, it's worth it, man! Good pay, good routine, good atmosphere, and _nothing_ that you won't see coming from a mile aw-!"

There was a sudden deafening explosion of plaster and concrete that sprayed through the air like a wave of missiles. The receptionist had a grand total of one and a half seconds to get out of the way before the huge form of First Tsurugi landed upon his desk – breaking it in half down the middle – and was followed shortly after by her wielder. A soft groan was the only indication that the agent was still alive.

A soft crunching echoed in the still air, as a heavy boot landed on a crumb of concrete and disintegrated it at once. Stepping through the gaping hole, the Griever looked outright murderous, eyes burning with an eerie light as he homed in on the still form that lay in the wreckage that was once the reception desk.

One step… two steps… then he stopped right there, and a palm clapped sharply over his left eye, slowly sliding up to rest over the left temple as Leon started to breathe erratically. He was shaking, mouthing words that were undecipherable, and his countenance was strained in agony. When the shaking at last subsided, the hand moved slowly away.

Now, the Griever stared down at his palm - his eyes reverted back to normal – and he seemed to pale even as his unguarded confusion seemed so vulnerable to public scrutiny. He was looking from his hand, to where the agent Strife was, back to the hand. His eyes were wild now – … terrified – as his breath quickened. The hand buried itself back into his hair as he continued to silently mouth words that made no sense, and he quietly retreated back through the hole in the wall.

Demyx opened his mouth, found no words to say, and closed it again. He looked down, at the crumpled form that was the finest agent in Organization XIII, the huge gun that was impossibly still in one piece to the man's back. He looked back through the hole, at the Griever that now curled up in a far corner of the trashed recreation area, hands buried in his dark locks as he suddenly looked for the world like a lost, frightened child.

At last did he raise his mobile back to his ear, and this time his thoughts were a lot less careless.

"… Reno? I'll have to call you back," he uttered distractedly, even as the rest of the facility started to come alive with the sudden ruckus. "… I have _no effin' idea_ what just happened…"


	6. Reconcilation

And as promised... Chapter 6 (timed really,_ really_ close...). I'll be taking my laptop with me on my trip, and I heard we'll be getting internet, so...just hoping for the best.

( Still waiting for my ride, so...there's trivia to follow in the dA journal entry. )

* * *

… _What were those words again? The writing by the fictional Dr. Henry Jekyll…?_

_**Even as good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other…**_

_That was it. What else?_

_**Evil besides – which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man – had left on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome…**_

_What profound words they were – words that were burned into his very mind. Burned…as a figure of speech, and burned…rather literally. Of all memories to lose, this one had never left him, hanging to him like a curse._

_**This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mine.**_

_And he hated those words. They were words of truth. They were words about a man who sought to conquer his hideous evilness…and failed. They were the words of that man, as he marched off to his doom._

_A doom he himself was destined to partake in. Ah, how he hated those words, but the words never left his side. They were bound together, like so…_

…_like a curse._

_That was how he had thought of it – how he had always thought of it and how he would always think of it, upon his broken road that seemed so dark and grim. And yet, in this moment, he thought nothing of how disgusted and fearful he was of that second personality – that other self – he had buried deep within him. The "evil" one, as Jekyll so nicely put it…_

_Although he had always been wavering between Leon and that "evil" which was the Griever, there was no Leon now. He was just the Griever; all of him, in spirit, in power, in hunger. And the Griever craved now for what was – over and over again – denied him by those he sought to protect… Denied him by those who sought to protect him… Denied him by those who sought to control him…_

_Denied him by his own human nature; by Leon's own fear of losing control…_

_And in this moment of time, where Leon had no say and the Griever had all freedom, he thought on the words of a genius scientist, and felt a truth within that man's hideousness: There it was within him – that spirit of hell that raged and roared – and it knew what it wanted._

_The man that Leon had respected and honored – the man that he would gladly surrender his life ten times over for – had taken things one step too far. How he would gladly kill that man now; messily, if at all necessary. And it was strange, really; he was quite certain that – in those few seconds earlier – he was terrified of this current situation._

_That first time they fought, that had been a friendly bout; they both knew that, acknowledged that. No ulterior motives, but a proof of strength, and of worth._

_There was none of that, now, for Leon had been cornered at that one, vulnerable moment, when his mind's defensive barriers were at their weakest. This man – and all his lousy timing – just had to pick that moment to strike him, to assault those walls that would no longer hold._

_Weak and in panic, everything that followed had been instinct: Defend those walls; protect the self. Kill the one who dared try such foolishness._

_And in the moment where Leon lost the power to act, he released control instead to the beast of war; just as Jekyll – in a moment of impulse – chose to become Hyde, Leon chose to become the Griever._

_He had heard it, as his fist connected with an unguarded lower torso: a stiff, sickening "crack". Were those ribs? How many?_

_Who cared, really?_

_His fist plunged further in, and he heard the wet cough, felt something warm hit his arm through the hushed echo of a soft gurgle. And then time flew forward - back to the present - and the force lifted both agent and weapon, sending them off the fist and across the floor in an instant._

_It did not take him more than a few seconds to cover the distance between them, and they were once more together. This time, though, their positions had been swapped; in terms of power, as well as control. And as he stood there, he towered over the hunched form that was coughing, struggling to draw breath._

_His body moved on its own – he let it, to see what fun would ensue – as he extended a hand and ran it over golden spikes of hair that were drenched in cold sweat. Then the hand fisted – clenched as many of those hairs as he could reach – and the resulting fist jerked forward, downward…_

_There was another "crack" – this time echoed by the low, thick drone of heavy metal paneling – as that head of golden spikes he held captive connected with the floor. And just like that, the man went limp, so effectively stunned that he did not resist the gentler move of the Griever turning him onto his back._

_The man was shaking now – either from the pain, or from a more primal instinct – and he placed his hand upon the man's face, caressing clammy skin as he pushed strands of hair out of the way; away from what he really wanted to see. He heard a growl sent his way – a poor sound that wobbled with underlying emotions – and he leered at the attempt as he finished his task._

_And he looked at that man now, at those eyes that moments ago were burning with so many emotions that he could name: anger, determination, frustration, fear even…and regret? He had wondered about that last one…for a while. Those eyes still held some of those emotions for him to inspect: there was definitely more fear there, and still that anger – though so much smaller and insignificant – that clung on stubbornly._

_And there was something else, right there in the center of the blue with a tint of green… What was that they called it? It had a name of its own – maybe Leon would know – but for now, he could just grasp the sentences that it encompassed:_

"I knew it. So this is who you really are."

…_so that was it. All this foolery…was a test?_

_How… …_

…_DARE… …_

…_HE._

_As the Griever struck out at the attacker once again, dishing out more and more of his power with each strike, he barely noticed the quivering, lingering headache that had been dulled in a surge of adrenaline. Instinct and bloodlust were all that seemed to truly matter; this sudden…thrill…a thrill he had not felt for _years_._

_He was no longer slowed for the sake of rational thought, as he felt his entire being come to life in that moment. It had been so long since he last felt this heady recklessness, this freedom of the soul that left him drunk in its depths. The freedom to do as he wished, he realized, as he bodily lifted the man by his neck._

_The freedom to do anything at all…_

_Suddenly their faces were so close together now, the very bridges of their noses touched. He could hear the harsh wheezing that was the other attempting to regain his breath and failing to do so. He could see the blood that dribbled from the corner of the man's mouth, and he could smell its harsh scent – so sharp and within such close proximity, that his nostrils flared._

_Slowly, in a quiet, curious moment, he turned his head ever so slightly, allowing them to get yet closer still. He could feel hot puffs of air, could almost _taste_ all that the other had eaten for lunch earlier… And that scent that stabbed at his already hurting head…that scent that would not be ignored… He homed in on what caused that irritating scent…_

_His tongue slipped out from between his own parted lips, and it carefully ran its tip over the front of the man's mandible in a curious quest to wipe it clean. He tasted salty copper – his senses kicking up a notch; consequent information surging through his system – and as he noticed the sudden lack of harsh breaths, he callously regarded the suddenly silent man before him once more._

_He found there was shock in those eyes now – the one remaining expression he could read from that suddenly blank face… and he reveled in it._

_He deliberately smirked, running the blood-stained tongue along the underside of his own upper lip. The taste – and that _smell_ – of the man's blood tainted all his senses now, and his lips pulled back in a full, feral grin. He knew well what caused the shock in that face:_

_This revelation of his other self – a self that cared little for life, that cared much for self-gratification; a self that had been shackled and locked away for a reason – was here at last. Here, without being held back; without any means to be held back…_

… "_**Yes…this is who I really am. All that you have asked for…**_"

_And as he flung the hapless man and his now useless weapon with full force, he felt himself delighting and embracing that self._

_Even as he heard the resulting explosion from those thick layers of plaster giving way to the force, he solemnly knew – the gun had hit all the hard barriers first, and the gun had saved its master's life. He knew he could not leave it like that – knew that he had to finish what he started – and he approached almost lazily…_

_One step…_

_Two steps…_

_He raised his hand to ready his strike…_

_And then those walls – those defensive barriers in his mind – would hold no longer; in an instant, they all came falling down._

_It was the pain he felt first – a white hot lance that slashed messy lines through the sides of his head like forked lightning. And it continued to dance about, assaulting him over and over again, as flashes of previous events he still recalled flew across his vision so quickly, he could barely make out each one._

_It was a moment of pure burning hell that at last brought halt to his actions, as all his senses were suddenly clouded over…and then in the next moment, he felt a strange wave of numbness; like an invisible veil that had been draped over him. It was a relief, admittedly, but one he would have welcomed better if it only it were not so…ominous._

_And as he at last regained himself, he realized he was Leon again – the Leon that could think and reason as a rational person could. The Leon that was capable of human emotion, of self-restraint, of understanding consequences._

_The Leon that now looked upon all that had been done – that _he_ had done – and felt at last the frosty chill of terror in his center._

_He could barely focus; barely think about anything else. His once sharp senses seemed so muted in this moment: there was a silence that was near absolute, if not for a consistent ringing in the background. As he hesitantly swallowed, he was assaulted by a taste and a smell that so greatly overwhelmed any others from his awareness._

_But he could still feel, at least…he could still see as clearly as before…_

_And all he saw was that motionless, crumpled form that was his partner Strife._

_All he could feel were the tremors of his stiff hands that had rendered so much damage on the other._

_All he could think of was one single train of thought, of a question that he could not find an answer to…_

… Hyne, what have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHAT HAVE I-?

_And everything – perhaps as a finally mercy – lost their meaning altogether, as the last barriers that had kept his mind intact…crumbled away into nothing…_

* * *

"Hyne on a _stick_, talk about messy…!"

"You're telling me…this will take _forever_ to clean up!"

"Now, gentlemen: less commentary, more action." And with that statement, the medical personnel were quick to fall silent as Dr. Ross – the Medical physician on duty – reached for one of his patient's eyelids. As he pulled it back, a small flashlight clicked once in his hand, and a beam of light hit the exposed surface.

"How is the agent casualty?" he suddenly asked distractedly, even as he directed that small beam over the eye he examined.

"Vexen took him in for emergency treatment earlier, sir," one of the two staff answered promptly, "and they rang up Professor Hojo."

"That bad, eh?" the other suddenly queried, earning once more his colleague's attention.

"Not really, but you know…those really complicated issues with patients overdosing on that chemical cocktail."

"Ah."

"I don't want to know _what_ that man was thinking, trying to provoke a Guardian like this," the physician muttered darkly. "Much less one so desperately in need of maintenance; much less a _dangerous_ one… Have any results from the scan come out yet?"

At once, one of the two produced a small plastic clipboard, and flipped through the papers on it until he landed upon a chart. "The activity in his temporal lobes seems to have lost its direction – impulses are triggering in all the wrong places."

"That's definitely the Guardian's spirit going into fight-or-flight," the doctor explained, releasing his immobile patient for the moment. "Too many fragmented memories in there, not enough space for it to settle; that near-berserk, with the already-eroded trigger firing off on it, was the last straw. Now it will just keep clamoring and clawing around in there until we clean out the fragments and give it room to perch again.

"Sebastian: get Xaldin on the line; he'll need to oversee this… Essai: get the machines ready."

"Right away, doc- Oh! Professor Hojo, sir, is-?" The staff did not get half a chance to finish his sentence as the shorter, hunched form strode by him as though he were transparent.

Dr. Ross regarded his superior quietly as the Medical Chief of Staff stopped before him. "Professor Hojo."

"Well, what's taking so long?"

The sudden demand caught the physician off guard. "…pardon, sir?"

"The _cleaning_, you fool!" the shorter man snapped irately. "We don't have time to deal with this – _I_ certainly don't – but apparently the Council finds this awfully important. So don't just stand there; explain yourself."

"We're just about to start the manual cleaning, sir," Dr. Ross hastened to explain himself, "but our problem now is that the…well…the safety measure you implemented…"

"Speak up, then – what about it?"

"It's eroded, sir. We can't rewrite it like we used to."

There was a loud snort, and Prof. Hojo tossed a hand skyward dismissively. "Such…_trite…_! Just clean out the entire area and start from scratch then!"

"But sir, that's a lot more memories-"

"-which are irrelevant, useless, and in the way," the superior cut off tersely. "Now stop blubbering, idiot, and get to work. I want this done with as soon as possible."

"I…yes, sir."

More talk considered unnecessary, the professor walked on pass the lower ranking doctor as well, muttering bitterly about being surrounded by an incompetent workforce over ridiculous matters.

At last, the staff known as "Essai" thought it proper to seek the next course of action. "So…what now, doc?"

"Do as he says – start prepping the machinery."

"…if you're sure about this…" And as Essai hurried to do as he was bade, Dr. Ross turned back to where his patient lay, sedated and at rest.

"… You poor, ignorant kid," he muttered, looking upon the one who couldn't hear him. "I wonder how many times you've been through this without realizing what you lost… If only your creation wasn't so…flawed…"

"… Dr. Ross, sir?" The one known as "Sebastian" returned to his superior's side as he continued: "We're good to go; Xaldin and the rest of the drafted personnel are on their way."

With a nod of acknowledgment to the statement, the physician followed his subordinate back to the consoles, where a dial was waiting. This dial, he took hold of now between gloved fingers.

"…if only you could remember any of this…" he uttered in a soft, hushed whisper, "…perhaps then, I'd ask you to forgive me…"

"Did you say something, sir?"

"… Nothing at all…"

And with a flick of the wrist, the machines hummed to life…

* * *

Strife decided he was alive; it hurt too much to mean heaven, and his hands were too cold to mean hell. And with air so sterile it _stank_… His eyes took a little persuasion to open, and he found himself staring at the dimly lit ceiling light; only the infirmary had lights like this.

"You know, Agent Strife, I had humored the idea that you would get into trouble, but I never thought you'd cause a facility-wide incident."

Deciding against moving too much, Strife rolled his eyes to the side; he found first a blurred blob of black, before focus revealed it to be none other than the Key Agent Roxas with an opened magazine on his lap. The shorter blond never looked up at him as he skimmed through full-length pages of advertisement.

"You've been out for three days," he informed helpfully, though still with his focus on some printed graphics. "Broken ribs, fractured arm, internal bleeding, blunt splenic trauma, torn ligaments, etcetera, etcetera…oh yes, and you're probably still feeling that concussion."

"…how is it I'm still alive?" Strife managed through a scratchy throat; he decided, a second later, that hydration was a must if he had any more talking to do.

As though reading his mind, Roxas at last set the magazine aside, reached for the pitcher of water that had been set on the bedside table. In a moment he had brought a filled plastic cup back, along with his answer.

"Vexen requested Hojo's authorization before administering some highly diluted Mako into your system," – there was a pause as he decided to further help the still weak agent with his drink – "which, by the way, needs you to keep still and rest, for it to finish its job."

Strife coughed on a stray bit of water that went down the wrong way, but his expression was open with disgust. "… I hate that glorified and so-called 'quick-Regen' shit…"

"Well, you asked, agent. Besides, it _did_ keep you from bleeding to death from where your internal organs got impaled by your own broken bones."

"I don't want to talk about this, please…" Strife muttered drowsily; it was to his relief that his superior obliged him. Another thought at last crossed his still foggy, sluggish mind, and he cleared his throat one more time before voicing it: "…what happened to Leon?"

"You're pretty concerned for someone who just threw you through a wall," Roxas could not help but comment, already returning to his magazine. "Are you sure there's nothing really going on with you two in that partnership of yours?"

"With all due respect, sir, I hurt too much for a debate about my social life. What happened to him?"

"They're conducting extensive recovery on top of that maintenance long overdue," the Key agent explained at last. "And judging from what you did earlier…you don't know what maintenance really is, do you?"

Greeted by silence, Roxas huffed audibly. "…didn't think so; I'll give you a brief, then…

"The Spirits residing in the Guardians take up space inside the temporal lobes, and will go through the memories stored in accordance with how long they've been there, how much their abilities are actively used and so on. Thing is, they aren't clean about it – fragments of those memories they take are left behind, which can reform if the Guardian tries to recall them.

"For that reason, the Spirit can't use that area again unless it's a fully formed memory, or a blank space. Technically, Guardians use their abilities much too often for brief personal history sessions to fix, so maintenance's job is to clean out fragments and provide the latter case. This brings us back to the matter at hand…"

Another pause was necessary as the Key agent snapped his fingers once to regain Strife's attention. "… After you delayed Leon from getting his maintenance done, _and then_ coaxed him into going off like a bomb, the surge of activity ran the Spirit right out of room. Now Medical has to deal with a Griever Spirit that is leaping around his lobes in a panicked frenzy, and confusing all the brain signals in those regions until it finds a new place to sink in."

"…can I get the short version?"

"You crashed his database."

"Thanks."

In the minutes that ticked by, the pair were silent once more, one awkward and the other unreadable. At last, with an irate sigh, Roxas put the magazine away with finality and leaned forward, his expression exasperated.

"Just _what_ were you thinking, agent?" he demanded in a controlled yet reproachful tone. "He nearly _killed_ you, for the love of Gaia! You're lucky he went into that seizure-"

"How is that lucky?"

"Demyx noted in his report," the Key agent retorted evenly, "that Leon looked ready to snap your neck off your shoulders. What if he actually succeeded _before_ he crashed?"

"We all know I'd deserve it," Strife answered darkly, his eyes sliding shut to give himself some measure of relief. "… I screwed up, didn't I?"

"The understatement of the century," was the equally dark quip, before the lecture resumed. "I understand you want to find a way of getting him under control, but _this isn't it_. With times as they are now, we've already lost too many field soldiers, and here you are making it hard for us to just _hold on_ to you…! For Hyne's sake, _think_ about what you're doing, and _calm down_ before you impair that judgment of yours even further. Do I make myself clear?"

"Transparently," Strife muttered back. It seemed sympathetic that Roxas at last relented to his present invalid state, and his tone was less harsh as he spoke again.

"I've spoken to Zexion regarding the damages on your behalf, so that should cut you some slack; I'll settle accounts with you later, and you're still expected to send in a report for the Council by the end of the week. Meantime, stay put for two more days and let the rest of the injuries heal."

At last, Roxas got to his feet and turned toward the infirmary door, pressing a button to turn the panel light green. "I'll leave you to that, now…and Agent Strife?"

"Yeah…?"

"Do us all a favor and don't get anyone killed. That includes yourself and your friend."

And as Roxas stepped back out into the main hall, the door slid shut behind him with an ominous "thud".

* * *

"Agent, I am _not_ letting you in there."

Wedge seemed a lot more assertive since the last time Strife had seen him. Perhaps the fact that his gun was still missing – confiscated prior by Hyne-knew-who – and the way he looked like he could fall over if someone blew in his face helped with it.

Yet, a lot more assertive did not equate absolutely assertive; one well-placed stare from the wounded agent, and the poor clerk promptly caved in.

"…look, it's all protocol this time, I _swear_…!" he insisted, though now the poor man fidgeted as he rattled out his instruction. "This is a _very delicate_ procedure! Not even _we_ can go in until it's done! Something about memory interruption and…oh, _I don't know_! Will you _please_ stop looking at me like that?!"

"Hey Wedge," an arrogant voice cut in smoothly, "is this guy givin' ya a hard time again?"

Grinding his teeth with enough force to give himself a headache, Strife turned on the Bahamut sentinel that had decided to show himself. "Mind your own business, Biggs."

"I'm with Security, _agent_," the ironically scrawny Guardian answered, and his tone was so thick with contempt that it _oozed_. "And after that stunt ya pulled four days ago, keepin' yer trouble-makin' spiky noggin in line _is_ my business."

"Come on, man, not again…" Wedge's comment went unheard as Strife tensed. Leaning on the wall with one leg up, Biggs leered mockingly at him.

"Aw… What's the matter, _agent_?" he egged further. "Feelin' a little _defensive_ without yer kitty to back ya up?"

"I never needed more than one finger to send you packing, Biggs; I still don't," Strife retorted coldly. "…or have you forgotten that incident with the train hijacking already?"

"Oh, don't _even_-!"

"You're a fast-talker, Biggs, but you're even faster with your legs…_especially_ with your tail between them."

"Oh, it's game on _now_, bucko…!" the Bahamut snarled, shoving off the wall and taking up an aggressive stance. "Ya wanna go? Huh? Ya wanna piece of this? C'mon, pretty boy, I'll kick yer ass…!"

"And what's the matter _now_, Biggs?" Strife countered easily. "Can't win a verbal argument, so you're picking on invalids?"

Knuckles cracked; the already inhuman growling became like thunder as it grew in volume. "Man, I'm gonna hurt ya so bad…!"

Suddenly, a hand clapped firmly upon the sentinel's shoulder. Any further threats died on Biggs' lips, and the earlier tension seemed to just dissipate away at once as the man responsible stepped between agent and Guardian.

"That's enough, gentlemen," that man ordered. "And that goes for the _both_ of you."

Under the reproachful glance of his superior, Biggs meekly backed off, hands to his sides with palms out in a gesture of passiveness. From the other side, an irritated noise escaped Strife's throat, but he turned away as well.

With the strongest Class A agent on one side and a Bahamut on the other, the impromptu referee was clearly unimpressed with what nearly took place. At last, sighing deeply, he beckoned to the sentinel as he reached into his pocket.

"Biggs, you and Wedge can take an early break; go out for the night and have a pint or two on me. I'll handle this myself."

"Y'sure, boss? This one's always trouble. Him and his-"

"I'm sure; now, go on."

Saluting once, Biggs leveled a final glare of warning at Strife before waving Wedge over to join him, his fist currently occupied by a liberal amount of coins. Now, left alone with the Key Agent that had intervened so easily, Strife at last nodded his respectful greetings.

"Xaldin – I suppose I owe you for that."

"Three colleagues of mine would have my head if anything happened to you," the Key Agent answered, his manner more neutral than his subordinate's. "_Especially_ since you owe each of them something…"

"…apologies, reports and munny; I know that."

"Good thing, too-" There was a soft "beep", and Xaldin consulted his watch before explaining. "That concludes the second stage of maintenance."

"Is that what's going on in there?"

"Yes, it is. Everyone gets a little on edge with these; brain work is always complicated." And the Key Agent turned, watching as machinery deactivated, medical staff in turn moving to disassemble equipment. "They'll remove what's unnecessary, upload what is needed for the third stage into the computers, and then they can resume. Until then…break time; for them to get coffee, for him to rest."

"…you're still not going to let me in there, are you?"

"Of course not, and with every valid reason, too."

"Thanks for being suave about it…"

"You're not supposed to be moving yet, for one," Xaldin continued. "And regardless of what your reasons were, you still caused quite a stir four days ago. Even if he _does_ recall anything about it, are you sure you want to be in there right now?

"I'll see you around, Strife. Take care of yourself."

Even as Xaldin had rounded the corner, Strife remained in place before the glass window looking into the lab. It was a sudden, repetitive vibrating in his pocket – accompanied soon after by a familiar tune – that brought his attention back to the world about him.

Reaching in, he found his handset and flipped it open. There was one unread message, from an Organization XIII staff member – an "Essai" – that he did not find familiar in the slightest. Still, curiosity directed his thumb to the right button. The file opened…

**(Hey. You ok?)**

_What the…?_ Strife looked up at once, searching his surroundings. Then it at last occurred to him to look through the glass window once more, toward the center of the room.

Silver eyes looked back at him, waiting.

With a forced laugh, Strife noted the handset that Leon was holding onto, as he made his reply. **(I'm fine. Where did you get that?)**

**(Borrowed it.)** And with minimal movement, the Guardian directed the agent's attention toward the oblivious staff a distance away.

**(One of them is going to be PISSED.)**

**(Whatever.)** Even as Strife was still reading that word, the mobile vibrated again, and he found himself opening a following message, **(You look like hell.)**

**(Speak for yourself.)** Strife's fingers on buttons retorted in his stead. He looked up, frowned at what he saw, and added, **(Flinching – is that supposed to be normal?)**

**(Think so. It's what they told me.)** The reply came, and after a short pause: **(Just tired. Head still hurts a little, but not so bad. Memory loss is confusing, though.)**

At Strife's request for clarification, there was yet another wait on his hands, the Guardian on the other side of the glass barrier hesitant. Finally:

**(Drawing a blank since that mission with R and A… Trouble with recalling personal details again. Good thing you put your number on my tag.)**

**(You did that.)**

**(Told you…)**

Despite the humorous tone one would expect with such a retort, Leon's expression had become more frustrated. Behind the glass, Strife stared down at his phone, lost in his thoughts until it vibrated in his hand once more. As he opened the newest entry in his inbox…

**(Something happened. What did I do?)**

When Strife did not move, Leon's fingers pushed buttons with an almost desperate speed. **(I got your blood on me at some point. Can still smell it. Can still TASTE it. What did I do?)**

The agent was looking away from his handset now, and has he watched the realization dawn on the other, he ground his teeth together as he hastily jammed a reply.

**(It wasn't you.)**

Leon's panic was replaced by concern as he countered: **(Then what happened to YOU?!)**

**(I'll tell you later.) **Strife's reply carried his promise, and then: **(Don't worry about it. I'm more concerned about you, right now. You crashed really badly.)**

A thoughtful pause, and then… **(That would explain how quiet it is.)**

**(I talked to Xaldin earlier; he says you just finished second stage.)**

**(That means I've got two more to go.)** Suddenly, Leon flinched again, his countenance strained as he squeezed the handset forcefully; it came as a surprise that he didn't break it.

**(What's wrong?)**

**(I don't know.) **The Guardian's reply took a while to appear, followed by another: **(I can't help but feel like something's gone, but every time I try to think about it, it hurts more.)**

**(Then don't think about it; sleep it off and finish your maintenance. Maybe it'll come back to you when you're done.)**

**(Or maybe it won't.)** There was another lengthy pause before, **(Nothing new; I'm used to being constantly disorientated by now.)**

**(Just try to relax, alright? The last thing you need is stress right now.)** Strife replied. **(You don't want to miss next week, after all.)**

When Leon did not respond for a long time, the agent felt something stirring in his gut – the feeling that something was definitely wrong. At last, the Guardian sent his reply:

**(What is happening next week?)**

Strife's thumb paused, hovering for a long, heavy moment. At last, he resumed his message, and eventually, **(Don't you remember?)**

**(Not a clue. Is it important?)**

**(No,)** Strife's next message came as slowly as its predecessor. **(It's nothing.)**

Leon was looking at him again, expression clear that he did not believe any of the last three words he had read. Strife found that he was unable to meet that gaze, and turned away from the window. It was yet another insistent alert from his handset that forced his attention once more.

**(Strife. Whatever it was that led to this…is it something you can't tell me about?)**

Strife wanted to curse at his Guardian partner's unexplainable ability to read him like an open book, especially at a time like this…

_What happens next week…? You've never forgotten before…_

He could feel that heavy gaze still upon him, and it felt like a burden on his shoulders. He could not pretend anymore, but he could not bring himself to tell the truth.

**(Leon, I wish there was a better way to say this, but… I'm sorry.)**

He turned off his mobile at last, bringing a definite end to their conversation. Pocketing the device, he turned and left, his footsteps hurried as he made his escape.

* * *

Organization XIII had its handful of "special cases", and Vincent was one of them; in fact, he was the eldest amongst them.

During the organization's infancy, Vincent became one of her first agents – Agent Valentine – and he had gone unchallenged as one of Organization XIII's finest for several generations. Much had happened during his service, and his resume was colorful enough to confuse a leprechaun.

…or so said the archivists, Strife concluded sullenly. Although those same administrative staff had been all over with crowed praises about the organization's legendary agent, not one of them had managed to procure anything relevant to the man's history – no work record, no resume, not even a medical record. Vincent Valentine was an enigma, albeit a rather popular one.

And so it was that when Strife arrived for his "appointment" with the retired agent, he had to show up empty-handed. Upon entry into the room lit only by light filtering in from the doorway, he paused, and then creased his brows at the sight dropped before him with little dignity.

"…so Xigbar _wasn't_ kidding about the 'coffin-sleeping' business," he muttered. He went unanswered, and the single wooden coffin that rested in the facility's underground basement remained still and almost boring. Yet, from within, there was definitely a faint buzzing that seeped through the cracks, confirming that there was, indeed, someone alive in there.

Pushing off the door frame, Strife approached the wooden box. Raising a finger, he tapped the surface thrice…and received no response whatsoever.

"Wake up; I have to talk to you." Still nothing came of it.

At last, Strife drew back his fist, and slammed it sharply into the foot of the coffin. With a clap like thunder, the lid flew clean off the coffin and crashed upon the floor a distance away. And within the now opened coffin, the awakened individual remained unmoving for a few moments more. Then, there was a low, irritated sigh, and at last that individual spoke:

"You could have knocked."

"I did," Strife pointed out bluntly, crooking his finger to mime the tapping motion from earlier.

"You could have knocked louder."

"I did," Strife repeated, this time pointing out the lid that was still a distance away.

With another deep sigh, Vincent finally rose into a sitting position, though still slouching slightly as he drowsily regarded the wall directly before him. For someone who had been under the organization for at least forty years – if what the archivists said was true, anyway – Vincent had retained the same appearance of the young man who first served as Agent Valentine, albeit with longer hair and more personalized attire.

Physically, he had not aged a day; in his spirit, though, it was as though he had seen a century go by, and his ruby eyes were undoubtedly jaded as he continued to look away from the man that he spoke to now:

"…what is it you want?"

"Xigbar told me," Strife replied, "that you would know something about Leon."

"…who?"

"… Guardian Leon…the Griever?" It was momentarily surprising that the man before him continued to draw a blank, and at last Strife tried, "…the kitten?"

And then a hint of recognition lit up in Vincent's eyes and he nodded. "Ah yes…the lion cub."

"Do all of you have a different name for him?"

"Perhaps," Vincent answered in monotone. "Perhaps not. It depends on how each of us saw him, I suppose."

"And you saw him as a cub?" At Strife's comment, the barest hint of amusement entered the man's tone as he replied.

"He was quite a child, back then."

"Were you his trainer?"

"No."

"But you knew his trainer."

"Yes." As silence followed the short reply, Vincent asked further, "Was that what you wanted to know?"

"There's plenty I want to know," Strife answered firmly. "And I think you're the only one left here who can answer most of them."

Another silence followed, until the former agent at last nodded in a sign of acknowledgment. "Bring back my lid."

Obliging, Strife found the lid where he sent it, and proceeded to drag it back toward where the other remained seated, watching him.

"…you had a fight with him."

"You can tell?" The question was punctuated by the lid dropping heavily back upon the dirt, and Strife proceeded to sit on it. Vincent raised a brow, but commented no further as he gave an answer:

"Well enough…but still, this is surprising…" the former agent drifted off, as he finally took in all the still healing damage wrought on the younger man's body. "The inhibitor should have kept him from going berserk long enough to do…this much, at least."

"What inhibitor?"

"Putting it at your level," –if there were any patronizing involved, it was shown in neither tone nor manner- "it is a safety catch, not unlike that on firearms. When the subject enters a berserk rage, this 'catch' is designed to detect its onset, stop it from progressing, and then effectively suppress it. A tricky creation, but it worked well enough."

With a snort of distaste at the whole affair, Strife asked further, "and how did they get that thing inside his head?"

"The same way they implant the fetal spirits into their Guardian candidates," Vincent explained. "It is 'fixed' onto an existing memory, and maintenance will take extra care to not erase it away; instead, they repair – or 'rewrite' – over the catch to keep it in peak condition."

"…and the memory that it's fixed on…" Strife concluded, "…it doesn't get erased?"

"Not unless something happens to make the catch unsalvageable," Vincent answered, still regarding Strife lazily. "…were you planning on telling me what that would be anytime soon?"

"What makes you so sure-?"

"Unless something did happen, you would have joined the majority in assuming he just has exceptional self-control. Circumstances as they are now… I suggest you be honest."

"…fine, you got me," Strife muttered, his hand up in a gesture of mock surrender. "Leon went into berserk and broke his brain; now he's lost more memories than what I'd call normal, and the one memory I've never known him to lose-"

"He's lost it," Vincent concluded sullenly. "So something _did_ happen to that cub."

"… He…was overdue on his maintenance…" The confession came forward at last, slow and painful as pulling of teeth. "…and then he was pushed right over the edge."

"And who did that?"

"… I did." At the admittance, the former agent's expression was even more impossibly closed off, and the bare remaining expression was that of reproach.

"…so you deliberately provoked him at the risk of driving him berserk."

"It's why I did it in the first place; I _wanted_ him to."

"…despite knowing how the Guardian would feel about that."

"It was an option," Strife retorted, this time more defensive. "I had to take my chances."

"Then tell me." And the former agent's hard gaze bore heavily into the younger man's as he spoke. "_Why_?"

"I need to know how to control him," the agent answered evenly, "and especially when he can't control himself."

"…and what all for, agent?" As the older man spoke, ruby orbs narrowed ever so slightly. "A _mission_, perhaps?"

"I need that certificate, Vincent, and I need to know how I can get it."

"And all this for a piece of paper – you think it's truly worth that much?"

"Everything rides on that mission and its payout, Valentine, and I've wasted enough time for that damned piece of paper," Strife spat back irritably. "I've wasted enough time, _here_-"

Any further words were lost as the blond agent suddenly found himself sprawled on his back, with a low grinding sound of the coffin lid being slid back into place. He blinked, still disorientated; the other had moved faster than he could comprehend, and at last closed the coffin once more with finality.

At last, Strife sat up again, sending an irate glare at the wooden barrier. "…we're not done yet, Valentine."

"I don't care what you are doing, so much as the idiotic way that you are doing it," was the muffled reply, carrying through easily enough, "but as far as I'm concerned, we _are_ done here. Leave."

"Get back out here and let me talk to you," Strife growled, rapping sharply on the wood; there was no further reply, which only grated on his nerves further. "I know you're still awake in there; _come out and talk_."

Again, there was but silence. With a loud curse, Strife punched the lid again, his fist slamming into the wood with much force and little care. This time, it did not give way, staying solid and stubbornly in place.

Strife drove his fist into the wood one last time – more out of spite than purpose – and finally turned and left the basement altogether. As the basement door slid shut in his wake, the once dimly lit place disappeared back into the darkness…

* * *

Strife was tempted to just blame it all on the after effects of concussion…whatever those after effects were. All he knew was that he had not felt as irritable as he did now, as though every nerve inside him had been slighted by the world and was screaming for blood and violence.

…_or maybe it's just the caffeine_, he decided later, inspecting his emptied mug again. In a moment, he called for his fifth round – three rounds more than he'd get away with, usually, before Leon went into a caffeine-induced high and jumped him for another round of sparring. Those never ended well…all he would _give_ to have one of them now, if only to get his mind off things.

Just as his fifth mug's worth of steaming black coffee was raised to his lips, he heard the tell-tale jingling of an accessory, and then something hit him between his shoulder blades lightly.

"Hi, Strife!"

"Rikku," Strife replied in turn, setting his mug back down and carefully negotiating it away from the girl's general vicinity. "You're a rare visitor. Lost a bet?"

"Aw, stuff it up yours, Spikes," the girl retorted at once, already making herself comfortable in an empty seat across from him. "We just want to talk and get chummy."

In answer, Strife snorted cynically before turning to regard the young brunette that was still behind him. "So, Yuna, what's this all about?"

"Hey, I started this conversation!" Rikku protested, even as she reached for the still hot mug of coffee.

"And I like talking to _her_ better," Strife replied smoothly, effectively seizing his beverage and drawing it out of her grasp. "Go on and sit down, already. You want to talk? Let's talk."

The young Shiva at last came around to another empty chair, and she seemed a little worried as she broached the subject: "Well, it's about-"

"Leon's fine," Strife answered, cutting her off and answering her question at the same time. "He still has the rest of maintenance to handle, but he'll be out soon enough."

"We heard about what happened," the brunette Guardian went on, this time uninterrupted. "Are you sure he's alright?"

"I said he's fine," Strife answered firmly, feeling that traitorous twinge of irritation creeping up on him again. "And just where did you hear that from? I thought the organization was trying to hush it up."

"I had a word with Myde." And with the introduction of the group's third, Strife grunted and raked a hand through his bangs tiredly as said third came forward but did not sit.

"And then there were three…" he muttered morosely, eyes flicking back and forth between the three girls that were now before him. "…Paine, just what powers of persuasion do you hold over our friendly neighborhood desk helper, anyway?"

"That's no one's business," the Diablos answered evenly, and her eyes of ruby red – for a moment – flashed ominously at him. That subject was dropped like a block of ice, and conversation returned to the original one at hand.

"So…what did _Demyx_ tell you?"

"That you nearly died; that he still needs a new desk; that he never saw Leon go that far before…" as she listed off her points, Paine never took her steely gaze away from the agent before her. "…that he had never seen Leon _lose it_ like that before…"

"Is nothing considered 'classified' anymore to him?"

"As that light-minded fool would put it," she replied dryly, "they picked the wrong guy."

"Indeed…" the conversation was placed on hold as Strife at last finished the last of his coffee, stared down into the empty mug and its dark stains, and then set it aside once more. "Which brings us back to the point: he's _fine_, he's recovering nicely, he'll be out soon. End of the story."

"You're being awfully vague there, Spikes," Rikku spoke up again, leaning forward enough for the garnet on her headband to nearly connect with Strife's head. "What're you not telling us?"

"Nothing that you need to know," he rebutted. "And just what is it to you, anyway?"

"We're just concerned," Yuna replied, her tone unchanging despite the growing tension in the agent before her. "V-Day is next week, and he hasn't had his chance to prepare for it."

"So are you _really_ sure he's okay?" Rikku jabbed in again, this time reaching over to prod him in the shoulder. "He'll throw a right fit if he doesn't have all his things ready."

"I doubt that will even cross his mind…" As the garnet suddenly connected sharply with his head and fierce green orbs bore into him with intensity, Strife regretted having said it out loud.

"Care to clarify, Spikes?"

With an irritated sound in his throat, Strife negotiated his fingers between his head and the Carbuncle's headband before pushing her back. "He doesn't remember V-Day."

"_YOU CALL THAT OKAY?!_"

"Will you keep it down?" he muttered back, pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempted to coax a new headache away. His plea went unanswered.

"It's the _one_ day in three hundred and sixty-five that we get exclusively to visit our folks! To be with _family_! Leon can't just forget it; _he never forgets it_!"

"Newsflash: _he did_," Strife answered tersely, deciding that he had about enough of this – of the world pissing on him. "And why should he bother? He doesn't have family."

"Doesn't have…_and you call yourself his partner?!_" At last running out of words to say, Rikku uttered an unintelligible sound and settled for clocking Strife sharply on his head with a final remark: "_Oui pimmo!_"

"…ow…"

Still muttering darkly, the Carbuncle readjusted her headband before storming off; Paine followed shortly after leveling another icy glare down at the agent. Soon, it was just Yuna and Strife at the table, the latter still nursing his newly acquired bruise. There was a soft sigh to his side, and an icy cool touch to his cranium caressed the ache until it at last dulled, and then faded.

"Thanks." As he rubbed at the spot a final time, Strife looked toward the direction the other two had disappeared only moments ago before he continued. "…she just cussed at me, I presume?"

"Not really, but close enough," Yuna replied, her tone reflecting a hint of amusement as she inspected the still obvious bruising. "Though, I think she got a little carried away…"

"The violently defensive streak…" he muttered. "That, and hotwiring trucks on occasion. 'Comes with the genes', alright…"

The attempt at lightening the mood worked for a moment longer, and Strife at last lowered his hand back to grip the empty mug. He stared down at the stained interior again, allowing his thoughts to drift aimlessly before he turned back to the Shiva who was still there.

"…can I ask you something?" And with her attention called, Strife went on, "you three are pretty tight with Leon, more than I can say for the others around here… How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Earn his trust like that."

"He trusts you-"

"_Not_ in the same way…" There was a pause, as Strife pushed the mug across the table, "…I know he trusts me, sure, but sometimes I feel like livestock that he's guarding. There are times where we seem to be on the same wavelength, but then other times… Sometimes I just look at him, and realize I really know nothing about him. I don't see that with you.

"He'll defend you in any way he can…and because you know how, you can do the same for him. That's something I can't do."

"…is that why you…"

"…I thought that would do it," he admitted tiredly. "But now I'm not sure anymore."

"…has anyone told you…" -and the tone got lighter- "…that you get crazier than an Ifrit when you're mad?"

"All the time," Strife answered, dry humor returning to him momentarily.

"This is not much for advice, but…" and the Shiva placed her hand over his head again, blue light appearing at her fingertips. "Maybe you just need to cool off, and think carefully about what you really want. Everything will just fall into place after."

"…cool off, huh?"

"It clears the head." At last, Yuna rose from her seat. "Well, I'd better go after them. Good luck; sorry I couldn't be of much help-"

"You were a lot of help." Strife's reply was firm, as he turned to meet her gaze properly. "The Guardian trainees are lucky to have a teacher like you, and… Leon's lucky to have you as a friend."

A silence followed – one that was thoughtful – and before Yuna took her leave, there was final thing she had to say:

"Don't forget: you're the only one he actually talks to. That's something that even we don't have."

* * *

It was a chore to arrange a second appointment with Vincent, but it was still a fortunate thing that he was allowed back in the basement later in the same day. As he once more found himself in the dimly lit room, Strife looked at the closed coffin, hearing nothing but the atmospheric noises that were about them.

A fist came out, and he rapped at the lid three times; again, there was no answer. There was still no answer about a minute later, and the agent sighed.

"…yeah, I deserve that." As he looked over the wood's grain, he went over his thoughts again. He had to do this one right…

"You asked me earlier, what everything was for…and you were right. That paper does have some importance, but…it's not worth everything that happened."

It was still quiet, and Strife continued to speak, hoping that the other was listening.

"Leon's my partner, and…all this time, he's done nothing but try to protect me. Even if it means protecting me from himself. I find that a little unfair…because I want to protect him as well; I just don't have the means to do so. I asked him, once, to trust me to take care of everything. I realize I can't keep that promise unless I _know_ how to take of everything.

"I want to keep this promise, and… I'll do whatever it takes. So if you can…I hope you'll show me how… Please."

When no answer came, Strife sighed again, and turned to go. His steps were halted by the familiar grinding of wood rubbing against wood, and as he looked back at the coffin, the lid slid off fluidly. The man within the coffin sat up again, and he stared quietly at the agent before him, reading him for all that he could see in the younger man's earnest display. And when he spoke, at last:

"…there _is_ one way."

Strife lit up at once, and returned to his previous position before the coffin, never breaking eye contact with the older man. "Can you tell me more?"

"His first trainer used it, to better effect than anything else they tried later, after they dismissed him…" A pause followed, as the lid was extended toward Strife. "Sit down – this will take a while…"

* * *

And took a while it did.

As night set in several hours later, a phone call was sent, to a number recently required.

"…**hello?"**

"Is this Essai? I'm Agent Strife."

"**How did you get my-wait; nope, never mind… What can I do for you, agent?"**

"I've got an application in mind…" Strife proceeded to explain what he and Vincent – who remained seated opposite him – had discussed. The other remained politely silent, until-

"**With all due respect, sir: are you insane? No one's tried that since-"**

"Since Leon's first trainer, I know," Strife affirmed. "I've talked to the right sources about it, and I know what it sounds like, but if it works-"

"**And what if it doesn't? There are a lot of risk factors going into this, you know."**

"I know."

"**And are you sure this is what you want?"**

Strife found himself hesitating; there was the uncertainty – the doubt – that something could go wrong. If anything, even if this was successful, there was no turning back; it would dictate his relationship with the Guardian for the rest of their partnership together. He was still hesitating when Essai spoke again.

"**Oh yes, by the way – your friend here was fiddling with my phone earlier today. There's something here I think he wanted to show you. One moment, I'll send it over…"**

There was a soft "beep", and Strife lowered his handset to inspect the new message that just showed up in his inbox. As he opened it…

**(Don't worry about it. I understand.)**

"…you're sure about this?" Strife asked, this time addressing the former agent in the basement with him. "That this is the best path we can take?"

Vincent nodded once – it was all Strife needed to see; all he needed for reassurance. Gripping his handset tightly, he brought it back to his ear.

"Essai, just get the paperwork ready; we're going for it."


	7. Ready for Action

_My apologies for the delay; work's been picking up on and off for the past weeks (followed by that recent technical glitch we've had - thank you, FFNet)_.

_Hopefully, Chapter 8 won't take as long._

_(more information to follow in dA journal update)_

* * *

"… It looks like the anesthetic is wearing off… Let's test your hand-eye coordination – right hand, first."

There was a soft, impatient grunt, but at last the patient extended the requested hand, palm up. Sebastian pocketed his flashlight once more and held out his own hand, fingers immediately forming a benediction sign as he instructed, "I want you to copy whatever sign I make, alright?"

Seated before the young assistant, Leon's answer was to oblige him with a benediction sign of his own. More signs were made and copied, then the instruction came to pick up speed, and then to switch hands… They went through nearly every sign known – and repeated a few – before a satisfactory hum signaled the end of the examination.

"Okay…one last thing and we'll clear you to go; here's this back." The Griever pendant was slid onto his still extended palm. "Let's see how much you can still recall – we're going to go through the alphabet; if any letter triggers something, write it down. If it doesn't, just a dash will do. Let's begin: 'A'."

Leon blinked, and then he squinted as something fuzzy registered for a bare moment…

_Someone was in his face, waving her hand quickly in front of his eyes. "Hello-o-o-o-o-o, are you paying-"_

He wrote down the first word: _**Attention**_.

"That's good. Now, 'B'…"

More letters were recited, and the paper slowly filled out with a list of words and dashes, things that he could recall and things that he could not. About them, assistants and interns of the medical department cleared the rest of their equipment from the room, and Essai sidestepped someone at the door with a brief "excuse me, agent" before hurrying on his way. The man still at the door took half a step around the door frame, watching Sebastian and the still-seated Guardian.

"… 'G'."

The pen froze over the paper, as eyes flicked to left momentarily. Leon's brows started to furrow as his entire countenance seemed more and more irritable. He was writing again, one word, then the next, then-

"You could have warned me that Rikku's the queen of drama queens."

Both Sebastian and Leon looked up at once to find Agent Strife leaning against the door frame, an unopened bottle of red wine in his hands.

"All that fuss for a…" the agent's complaint paused as he checked a label. "…Leá Monde Vintage?"

Leon paused, and then slowly arched a brow in open curiosity as he set the pencil down. Strife smirked and lowered the bottle back within the safety of its satchel. "That's not all I got; your friends were pretty thorough with everything you get each year. Good thing you're a simple guy. Can he go?"

Sebastian hesitated, glancing briefly at the paper and the words that had been scrawled in soft lead. Finally, he nodded. Satisfied, Strife tossed Leon first his jacket, then his gun and bayonet in its holster.

"Come on – let's get out of here… I'll tell you later; don't look at me like that."

The door slid shut behind the two, and at last did the assistant pick up the piece of paper, reading the last few letters that had been etched there – they wavered a little, the hand that wrote them being less confident, less certain than before…

_**Griever attacked s…**_

* * *

"You know, I was honestly surprised," Strife quipped, leading the way down the stairs. "You never told me about just how well you and Vincent Valentine knew each other."

Surrounded by shadows within the dimly lit basement, Leon's silver eyes seemed to glow as he took in the surroundings. Then he promptly homed in on the center and made right for the coffin. Strife did not interfere, merely watching as his partner ran his hands over the smooth wooden surface. At last, with a single precise tap at the foot of the coffin-

-there was the tell-tale drone of the lid being slid back without any fuss.

"…so _that_'s how you do it."

The lid slid away completely, and the single occupant within the coffin sat up. Red met with silver, each man studying the other with such intensity; they seemed to be making up for what time was lost.

It was at last Vincent who broke the staring contest as he nodded in greeting, his eyes softening by just that slightest bit. "Hello, cub."

If he remembered anything behind that nickname, Leon did not show it as he returned the greeting with a similar nod.

Strife then saw it fit to step in with what packages had been purchased. The first that came out was the bottle of wine, followed by a wine glass equally fresh from the store. "I take it this is for you?"

"You've been well-informed," Vincent answered dryly. "What else did you acquire?"

The agent smugly produced a medium-sized box, holding it up to the pair that could see better in this lighting than he. "Your annual VIII-chess set."

Leon's hand was already out to take the box, and he proceeded to open it and lay out the pieces accordingly as Vincent stepped out of the coffin to join them on the floor. The glass was set down last, a good dose of dark beverage swirling within.

"So you do this often?"

"Every year, without a break," the retired agent replied, before taking a sip from the glass. "…are you staying?"

"Would I be intruding?"

"You bought these things and brought him here; you're more than welcome. That aside, we're used to having company."

Company. Guards. A young Griever that used to flicker- Strife halted his train of thought from going any further than he needed it, and seated himself once more on the discarded lid as he watched the pair sit opposite one another in semi-darkness, a chess board and a glass of wine between them. Vincent had black, Leon had white. Three counts later, the younger's hand moved over the pieces…

…a white fighter from the center moved a square forward. There was a soft huff, and a black fighter came to meet it from the left. There was a momentary pause, and then Leon was moving a white sniper into the vacated square behind his fighter. In an instant, his eyes left the board, instead looking toward Vincent in silent query.

Strife could vaguely guess the question, just as Vincent moved his black fighter another step forward…and gave his answer. "Ever since you were brought in for Guardian production, though not here of course – it was your trainer who introduced us… As for the first time we played, that was about a year and some months after."

Leon's hand moved again, and the white sniper now stood side by side with the white fighter. Again, he looked up, waiting; he was not disappointed.

Out came the black sniper, a square apart from the white. "I knew him well enough; the two of you were very close, as far as I can recall. He used to have you here, watching us play, and then he was the one who taught you."

A second white fighter moved up, side by side with the first. More relaxed now, Leon's brows danced a little, hinting at the nature behind his next question. Strife smirked as he read it, for how open it was:

_Did I ever win?_

Vincent huffed again, and the barest trace of mirth made itself evident as he picked up his black sniper, simply holding it in the air without setting it back down. As his fingers rolled the small ebony figurine – poised with bow fully-drawn for the decisive strike – he delivered his answer.

"You were about six, then. Your trainer had brought you to watch our match, and he wasn't faring too well. You were still young and did not know any of the rules…but you wanted to help."

He paused, and the base of the black sniper lightly tapped the board's surface again… "…that was the first time you ever took the Sorceress from me. The first…and only time."

The black sniper had been replaced at the exact same square, and instead a black fighter from the extreme right came forward to release the chocobo behind it. A white fighter met it head-on with little hesitation.

_Never again?_

A black dragoon hopped over the fighters before it. "There were a few stalemates to begin with, but in the years after, you usually lost."

The first white fighter took the bold, yet foolish step forward – a step that would cost it its place.

_What happened?_

Vincent looked up, regarding the younger man before him. There was nothing hidden in the expression beheld to him, as he took in the earnestness behind the simple request to know the truth. No more pieces were moved as the elder spoke again.

"An angry heart cannot properly guard what is precious."

For a moment, Strife could not tell the true meaning behind those words, or even whom they were directed at. They were heavy, and weighed deeply upon him as Leon at last backed off, bowing his head to once more focus on the chess game. There were no more questions to ask.

"You have lost most of that past anger," Vincent continued quietly, once more waving a hand over his pieces as he made his selection. "…perhaps this indeed is for the better."

As another of the dark pieces moved across the checkered board, Strife felt those ruby eyes bearing into him for a fleeting moment. He looked away.

* * *

"I could have gone my entire life and careers not knowing we had a Hyne-frickin' _columbarium_ behind the facility," Strife grumbled, pushing aside an overhanging creeper as he made his way through the yard. "See if I ever get a good night's sleep again."

"Show some respect," Leon reprimanded lightly, his attention distracted by the abundantly growing plantation about their area – the entire yard was an explosion of green shades, the grass better tended to than anything that chose to scale the trees and their branches. The chess game had taken a few hours, and now – in the last rays of light from late evening – everything appeared perhaps a little more ominous than it should.

The agent snorted dismissively and trudged on his way across a path set in concrete. "The walls have ears and the dead are constantly pissed off; whatever… Damn it."

"What?"

"I forgot to ask which one it was…" Strife allowed Leon to step around him as he took in the long stretch of shelving – row after row of square plaques over each niche. "This will take a while…"

"Over here."

The blond turned sharply, finding his partner already standing before one of the many plaques. "You remember the location?"

"I trust my handwriting." And his finger pointed out a far wall that was stupendously covered in dark scrawls comprised of many messages, all by different people. Some were in felt-tip, some in marker, yet others scratched or chipped crudely into the battered surface. All were directions. Strife read a few of the more decipherable ones – "_**Two to the thirty-fourth**_", "_**Ten steps forward, ten down on the crack, two right**_", "_**-ake is a lie**_" and such – before joining the other where he drew away the marble piece.

"What are you doing?"

"Saying hello." Leon reached into the small opening, and what he drew out left the agent blatantly unimpressed.

"… So… who's this, and why are they in a biscuit tin?"

"It's convenient," Leon chose to answer the second part of the question, as he stared down at the small round tin cylinder that had been painted over in a muddy brown. There was a soft light in his eyes – of regained recognition – and he at last explained, holding it up for better inspection…

"I have a friend in here – he holds the keys to every memory I ever thought important. When I was a kid, every time I needed to remember something, I'd come see him, and let him know. He has every one of those memories, every detail…even those I never knew I forgot."

With a soft huff, Strife leaned back as he eyed the mysterious can. "Do you need me to leave?"

"…no." And the tin landed squarely in the blond's hands. "I need you to help me get rid of this."

Strife fired an incredulous look of disbelief at the other, his hands flat as possible to minimize contact with the precious container. "Wait a minute, _what_?"

"If what Vincent said was right, then there is a lot of anger in there that I can live without," Leon answered quietly, still staring at the tin with the same glint of recognition. "I don't care what you do – I won't remember it anyway."

"You've still got your instructions up there."

A callous shrug. "I'll cross them out now. Someone else can have the hole."

"…your _past_ is in here," Strife reminded tersely. "And if there's anger, so are its reasons. You _need_ this."

"… No, I don't."

Disregarding the removed plaque and the emptied niche, Leon at last turned away from the tin and crossed the distance between them and the excessively vandalized wall. Staring up at his own written words in thick marker ink, he finished his point.

"I don't need my past. I am who I am now, and all that I once was is gone… It can stay that way."

A muted crackle echoed in the air, and the words that were once clear were now marred by a single long crack that stretched over their length. In Leon's hand, his bayonet gave away little toward what it had just done; he lowered it to his side, still looking at the wall and the scratched out message.

"No matter what I wrote, without my actual memories, those words are just words. No matter how far I look back, I see nothing there… I might as well keep moving forward."

Spinning his weapon once, Leon returned it to its holster before turning away from the wall that had taken yet another beating. Staying his position, Strife at last took a firmer hold on the tin as he posed his next question: "Then why give this to me?"

The brunet's steps halted at the doorway, and he sent the other a knowing glance.

"… So you'll know where to look."

And then he stepped outside, his footsteps dulled by the grass he had to be treading on. Still within the walls of the columbarium, Strife gave the mud-colored tin in his hand a good, long look. With a sigh of defeat, he spun it in the air before catching it again.

"…I'm going to need a shovel."

* * *

"…I still can't believe you just buried the damned thing."

"Hey, you said you didn't care what I did, so what if I bury it?"

The whole trek back to the recreation room – finally restored with a fresh coat of paint – had been much less eventful, but as the two sat together in the same room they had trashed two weeks ago, leaning on the wall that had its man-sized hole filled up without leaving a mark, their words were looser on their tongues. For in Strife's hand was an impulse-purchased bottle of Corel Classic, already half-emptied between them.

Leon snorted in amusement, his eyes cast skyward as he continued. "I thought you would pocket it, or open it right away, but _bury_ it… What, were you saving it for the winter?"

"Right alongside a trove full of nuts," Strife countered sarcastically. Taking a swig, he passed the beverage once more as he swallowed. "…I'm just not comfortable looking inside in case you change your mind."

"I told you, I don't need it," Leon answered, his words muffled by the smooth glass surface between his teeth. There was a pause as he lifted the bottle higher; a deep swallow afterward, the bottle came back down, and he relinquished it as he continued. "And since when did you care how I felt?"

"Where's that coming from?"

"…I'm not sure," Leon admitted slowly. "Something happened recently, but it's…blurred. I get the general idea of what was probably going on, but the details are just not there."

"What's your point?" Strife asked carefully, earning his partner's intense stare.

"I have this strange feeling that you know all those details-" the gaze hardened, "-and you're not telling me."

"It's not important-"

"I attacked someone, and it bothers me," the brunet cut him off irritably. "That means something important enough. And how about the fact that I was actually _berserk_ when it happened?"

"You remember that."

"I remember enough of that, and this stupid blood taste in my mouth. Give me it." The bottle returned to his hand, and he proceeded to empty it before speaking again. "…still there. It's disgusting, and it won't go away."

"I thought tasting blood isn't something new." As Cloud spoke, he could see the brunet unconsciously shaking the bottle, as though doing so would magic more alcohol into existence.

"It isn't; that is why I need to know just _what the hell happened_-"

A silver glow reached the Guardian's eyes, getting steadily brighter. Strife's hand shot out so fast, he was clapping his partner sharply on the shoulder before his brain even registered it. And yet, it worked – it was all both needed as Leon suddenly blinked in a measure of surprise and confusion, appearing disorientated as he stared down at the emptied bottle in his hand. The glow was gone, replaced by a strange metallic gray…dimmer and duller than the usual silver.

"…I'm out of here," Leon muttered at last. "This room smells bad. Must be the paint fumes…"

He was back on his feet, crossing the floor to where the entrance was. He paused at the doorway, turning his head slightly to the other man still seated. "…are you coming?"

Strife stared down at the gap between his bent legs, forcing his breaths to deepen without raising too much concern. Had to get his heart rate back down…had to calm down…

"… Strife?"

"I need a minute."

He felt those eyes on him again, questioning – wondering what was going on. Then the door slid shut, leaving the agent alone in the room as he attempted to bring order to the sudden whirl of flashes in his mind.

_Pain…blows moving too fast…that manic grin…burning silver getting brighter and brighter…the loss of control as he flew through the air toward the wall…_

"…can't do this…" he uttered bitterly, no one to hear or see him as he allowed himself this moment of weakness. "Not ready for this…not again…

"Vincent Valentine, _just what in the name of Minerva did you make me agree to…?!_"

* * *

"…_The Last Rhapsody?"_

_Vincent nodded in reply, before elaborating: "That man had a particular – while not fanatical – interest in LOVELESS; an interest that in turn influenced the young cub. It was this short poem which made the difference."_

"_How so?"_

"_The first time the cub went berserk – shortly after receiving the Griever into his mind – he attacked his trainer. It was then that that man started to recite the poem to jog his memory."_

"…_and that was it?" Strife cut in again, tone incredulous. "It worked? Just like that?"_

"_A fool's chance of one in a thousand." The elder agreed sardonically. "And he never realized how lucky he was – he already had that connection with the cub to begin with, and the Griever was incapable of much at its infancy. It was an opportunity that would never come again, and that bumbling fool tumbled right in and made it work."_

_Strife sighed heavily, raking a hand through his sweat-dampened spikes of hair. "And here I am, getting the short straw…the _really_ short straw."_

"_It is doubtlessly a risky business," Vincent admitted, "but has its chances of success – from what I understand, the two of you, as partners, are close enough for familiarity. If you recreate the situation, there is that opportunity to cause a renewed imprinting onto you."_

"_And why does it have to be the full hundred percent?"_

"_It's not the cub who has to hear those words, but the spirit inside him."_

"_So basically, I do something incredibly suicidal to send him off the edge _again_," Strife retorted darkly, "read him some poetry as he tears me to pieces, and you're not even sure if that will work?"_

"_It is the only method we know that has actually worked before. Nothing else came close," Vincent answered evenly. "In the end, it's your choice if you wish to go through with this."_

_The agent fell silent, his eyes burning into the cover of the poem's writing – even in the minimal lighting, he could tell the letters were all in a native language far from what he was used to._

_It was a difficult decision for him to make, both understood – it would be a lie to claim that Strife wasn't apprehensive after such a close brush with death. But with one as stubborn as the young blond, his answer was predictable. Admirable for that impulsive bravery, but still predictable._

"…_and how do I keep myself breathing long enough to hit that percentage?"_

"_Training," Vincent answered bluntly. "At your current level – added to the fact he took you unaware – you barely survived the cub's strikes at…forty percent."_

"_You're stretching it, aren't you?"_

"_I am. You have too little time to hope for victory against him in a full berserk, but with the efficient and adequate training, you will have a better chance of survival."_

_There was a soft rustle, and Strife was presented a second document, more elaborate in details than the first._

"_Give this to Xaldin," Vincent instructed. "He will see to it that you get this necessary training."_

_Strife did not take the paper right away, instead eyeing it with the same dark skepticism as he did the poem. With his hand still out with its offering, the elder regarded the younger for a moment, and at last spoke again._

"_I admit to disliking you, Strife, but you are still the lion cub's partner. I'm concerned about him, but I'm limited in my means of helping. I can only trust you to do the rest and make this work._

"_I ask, in turn, that you trust me. Can you do that?"_

* * *

"Steady… Don't lose your balance. Don't over-commit."

In the training room, the facility's Bahamuts formed a ring around two of their fellows. The pair circled one another, stances defensive and ready to react to any signal. Moving along the ring's inner circumference, Xaldin in turn was watching them, his form relaxed.

"Biggs, I want you to move in on Gippal, but only at two-thirds his speed."

The sentinel grumbled, but slowed accordingly as he and his sparring opponent continued to circle. In a second, he lashed out, aiming for Gippal's side; all he was rewarded with was a hard whack toward his midsection.

"Again. Maintain that speed, Biggs."

Irritably, Biggs finally complained. "C'mon, boss, I go any slower, and I'm gonna fall _asleep_! I can't do _nothin'_ at this speed…!"

"Take your time – just keep trying."

"…unless I come at ya like this…"

Once again, his fist flew out, meaning to fake a right as his left swung in low a brief second after. Gippal was quick to catch his attacking fist and turn it. He crouched low, and pushed upward – Biggs flipped right over his head, rolled over his back, and landed messily behind him. From his place, Xaldin nodded in approval.

"Good job, Gippal."

"_Good job, m'_ _EYE_!" Biggs protested loudly, rolling onto his back. "_I was two-thirds his speed!_"

An authoritative hand silenced the incensed Bahamut as their superior now addressed the whole room of Guardians. "Did everyone see what happened there?"

"Yeah, he _cheated_…" Biggs was again called for silence before Xaldin continued.

"Biggs got frustrated, and tried to force the issue. As he lost his patience, he in turn lost his balance, his center line, and his defense altogether." He paused, turning to once again speak with the floored sentinel. "You gave Gippal all the advantage. If you execute your forms correctly, your opponent is eventually going to make a mistake. The key is patience – wait for the right opportunity."

Again he was addressing all of them: "As Bahamuts, each of you represent the enforcement of peace not just within this facility, but wherever we send you. We train you not to fight a war, but to achieve and maintain peace. Suppressing a threat to that peace does not have to involve excessive force; it's not about a perfect offense, but an effective reaction to any offense. Let your opponent come to you… Have patience."

All around the room, the sentinels were nodding, echoing their understanding. Still in the center of their ring, Gippal grinned and offered a hand to his comrade. With a muttered "thanks", Biggs accepted it and got to his feet.

"Just so y'know," the latter added, his heated anger dissolving, "I can take ya easy any day."

With an amused snort, Gippal clapped the other amiably on the shoulder as he returned to his side of the ring. "Bring it."

Before Xaldin could continue, the door slid open. As an agent entered the room, a hush fell over the many puzzled, curious Guardians, all eyes trained on him as he approached their superior.

"Conditioning, everyone. Pair up," Xaldin instructed. As the ring broke around them, he brought his attention back to the visitor. "Agent Strife. What can I do for you?"

In response, Strife held out the document he had taken from Vincent. It traded hands, and as Xaldin read its contents, his expression barely changed in any way.

"… I see."

"So can you help me?"

"Of course." The paper lowered, the Key agent's eyes now on the agent before him. "Pick the one you want."

Strife's eyes swept across the room, and his finger came out to jab pointedly at Biggs.

"That one." This earned a knowing smirk from the superior as he answered.

"I thought so. I'll do you one better… Biggs. Gippal." Both sentinels looked up at the summons, and Xaldin beckoned them over. With them before him, he gestured back toward the agent beside them.

"You have a new mission, boys," he explained, the smirk still there and not planning to leave. "For the next three days, you two are under orders to spar with Agent Strife, in a two against one. No limitations, no handicaps."

At first, there was only a surprised silence, then Biggs allowed a full-fledged grin to show as he rubbed his knuckles in anticipation.

"Man, I _love_ this job…"

* * *

"_The Bahamuts have two means of attack – ranged and melee. As for close quarters, I doubt that will pose too much of a problem. It would be the ranged attacks that give you some challenge._

"_Their ability to manipulate the flow of atmospheric air is essential toward your preparation: for moving projectiles, you would first sense it coming through the movement of the air about it before it connects, perhaps? Not so with the Bahamut's wind strikes – that movement itself is what will hit you; you have to heighten your intuition even further, to sense that movement before it forms."_

"_So what do you want me to do?"_

"_Have both forms come at you, to condition yourself into never slackening your defenses. You might want to have one opponent that hates you."_

"Yo, agent – _think fast_!"

Strife felt the blow before he could fully dodge it, wincing as yet another sore spot promised to become a full-fledged bruise by the next morning. He had little time to think further on it as he narrowly missed a swing at his head from behind.

It was as the man had said – he had no room to hesitate, to think; everything flowed with pure instincts and reflexes, anything and everything it took to minimize the number of strikes he took from either Guardian. And despite how easy it sounded in theory, trying to sense the wind coming at him was still far from him – they were already into their second day, and had made little progress; it wasn't helping that the two Bahamuts were not coordinating. At all.

He was still exchanging blows with Gippal when he heard a surprised, guttural sound; a second later, both sentinel and agent were bowled over by a second strong gust of wind.

"Check your fire, man!" Gippal shouted irritably, rolling back to his feet as he once more engaged Strife. Across the room, the other sentinel snorted and swiped the pad of his thumb over the tip of his nose.

"Ya don't wanna get hit, Gip? Then don't get in my way!"

"I'm on your side, you nut!"

"If ya were, ya wouldn't _be_ in the way!"

With a loud, drawn out breath, Strife held up a hand for pause. Both Bahamuts halted their attacks as he straightened, sending them both exasperated looks.

"…this isn't working," he stated bluntly. "Switch over."

"Agent," Gippal interjected mildly, "I'm the better fighter – no offense, Biggs."

"Exactly." The agent emphasized his point once more. "Switch over."

With a helpless shrug, Gippal obliged, taking up the spot that Biggs now vacated. The scrawnier of the pair glowered darkly at the agent he was about to face. The uniformed sentinel was tense everywhere, squaring his shoulders and pumping his fists in preparation. Strife, on the other hand, forced his body to stay as relaxed as possible, to prepare for movement with whatever came at him.

Amethyst light sparkled for a moment, and a soft growl filled the air – it was what the agent wanted, but not quite enough. Smirking condescendingly, he dropped the bait.

"What's wrong, Biggs? Don't you want to…how did you put it – kick my ass?" A brow lifted. "Or do you want me to hold your hand-?"

That did it – there was a full-blown bellow of seemingly unearthly origins. A fist moved so fast, it was but a blur as it flew at Strife's face. He was sidestepping, still feeling the rush of pressure just graze his torso, when a blunt invisible force connected with his right cheek. Cursing under his breath, he instead concentrated on keeping Biggs within his line of vision, dodging what he knew he could avoid.

_Don't trust your eyes_, he reminded himself. _Don't trust your ears. It could come from anywhere-what?_

He did not question the sudden compellation to drop to his knees. The spikes of hair on the top of his head were tugged forward, indicating the force he barely got away from – not perfect, but at least he was getting somewhere…there was no time to celebrate, though; not with an angry Bahamut still bearing down on him.

His crouched position had left him at the disadvantage as he first swerved to the left, and then shot a hand up to meet an uppercut. He was tapping into that force, riding with it to straighten once more, up and ready for anything-

There it was again.

He stepped back, the hand still gripping Biggs' fist yanking the man forward. There was a startled shout from his opponent as another unseen strike connected – all he needed to hear.

"…lucky shot," he admitted to the suddenly silent sentinel. "…or are you out of steam already?"

Biggs said nothing, hunched slightly with a hand touching his ribs where the force connected. He wasn't injured, but he remained unmoving for a tense, ominous beat. As he raised his head, amethyst light was surging in his eyes.

"…_**ya makin' fun of me, ya lil' shit?**_"

Berserk mode. Nothing left but pure, unrestrained anger, and a fistful of glowing magic.

Strife could see the wind surging fiercely about the enraged Bahamut, and he swallowed carefully. Through the harsh rushing wind, he could hear Gippal shouting at him to get down, to defend himself. Another roar stabbed mercilessly into his ears…

…_silver fire burning him inside out…blood staining sharp canines…_

… "… _**All that you have asked for…**__"_

"Strife, _get down now_!"

He was moving again, immediately diving for the floor as a sharp hiss shot toward him with such force that his inner ears throbbed slightly. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a few strands of golden yellow drifting to the metal floor beside him.

Biggs had nearly taken his head off, and he had nearly _let_ him… His mind was going slower than he would have liked, and now he could hear Gippal stepping in to deal with the situation at hand.

"Come on man, cool it!" the blond sentinel was shouting, his own manipulation of the wind both softening as well as negating more strikes sent by his berserk colleague. "I said, _cool it!_"

"_**And ****I**** said, **__**get out of my way-!**_"

A single loud crack of thunder echoed through the air. In its wake, there was nothing but a tense silence, no one to break it just yet.

Gippal's fist was still out – still clenched so tight his usually loose glove material was stretched taut – and his glare remained fixed on Biggs, the force of the blow powerful enough to turn his head. Biggs was still staring away to the left, at the floor, and dark coloring was already starting to show on his cheekbone.

It was at last the dark-haired Guardian who moved first, slowly turning to face forward – the previous light gone from his eyes – before bowing his head slightly and touching his face almost sluggishly. "…shit, man, I think ya nearly broke m' nose…"

"Sorry," the other replied with an almost callous shrug. He then turned back to Strife: "You want to call it a day, agent?"

Said agent did not answer verbally, but regained enough of his composure for a curt nod. Biggs sent him a final glare before shuffling out of the training room, fingers still nursing his sore nose. The door slid noisily shut behind him, and it was only then that Gippal thoughtfully inspected his knuckles, his other hand coming up to rub at them.

"… Is punching how you Bahamuts deal with berserks?" At Strife's question, the sentinel chuckled before giving his answer.

"Nah – that's just how we deal with Biggs."

And then he turned and approached the agent, a hand out in offering. After a moment's hesitation, Strife at last shook his head, remaining seated on the floor with a knee up. Gippal watched him for a while, and then dropped into a semi-supine position beside him. "What happened back there? I've seen you and the Griever go nuts during sparring – you could have handled that without trouble. Why'd you freeze?"

"… I'll get over it," Strife muttered darkly, not truly answering the question. "It's something I have to work out on my own."

"Even if you did tell me, sir, I wouldn't know what to say," Gippal confessed, a wry smile on his face as the agent at last huffed, the tension in the air slowly elevating.

No words passed then, both simply taking the quiet for what it was – the agent needed the time to think, to go through again what had just happened, to understand what it was…to figure out what to do. Raising his knees, Gippal sat up, his hand digging into his pocket…

"… Here, take this."

Strife blinked, but turned his hand all the same to receive the small object that was clapped into its center firmly. He felt the cold surface of metal, and as Gippal's hand moved away, that object was revealed to be a miniature sword with a single fish hook angling sharply from its end. He frowned down at it. "…what is this?"

"It's a keyblade," Gippal answered easily. "When I went home for V-day, my kid brother gave it to me. Brotherhood is what he called it, and it's supposed to be lucky."

Raising a brow skeptically, Strife scoffed openly. "Thanks, but a good luck charm won't do much for me."

"Probably not," –and the sentinel got back to his feet- "but believing helps."

"…don't you want it back?" the agent called after him, still seated as the other was already stepping away.

"I'm fine for the moment," was the man's answer. "When you're done with it, give it to the next guy you think needs it. See you tomorrow."

At last, only Strife remained within the training room, staring down at the keyblade that lay across his palm. His fingers curled over it, and he carefully pocketed it, all the while making a mental note to put in a good word for the man the next time he saw Rikku.

The last thing he needed now was to owe more people favors.

**

* * *

[Hey.]**

[Whose phone did you borrow this time?]

**[One of the staff loaned me time on a laptop – it's cheaper.]**

[I figure. How's the checkup going?]

**[Can't complain.]** He could visualize the other shrugging. **[Just not all that used to this, s'all.]**

[Isn't it something you're used to by now?]

**[Not this time. Can't help but feel like they're all more scared than usual.]**

[What do you mean?]

**[As far as I recall, they used to just get a little nervous. Now they're kind of paranoid. Like I'd blow up in their face or something.]**

[It'll pass.] There was the telltale hissing of the sliding door, and he looked up momentarily before continuing, [I've got to go. I'll drop by to pick you up later.]

**[Sure. See you then.]**

Putting away his handset, Strife crossed the room to where the two Guardians were waiting for him. Both retained some of the results from the day before, Gippal still favoring his sore fist a little and Biggs glowering with dark purple etched over his face. Looking from one to the other, Strife then turned toward Biggs, addressing him neutrally.

"Whatever happened yesterday is redundant. Today is the last day, and we have to make it count for all that it is worth – no matter what it takes."

The sentinel snorted, his countenance cynical. "…so what, ya want a truce?"

"No," Strife answered simply. "I want you to try harder."

Biggs' face went blank instantly. Then a grin appeared, quickly broadening as the man rolled his shoulders in preparation for the battle ahead. Gippal was already moving away, once again taking the ranged shots.

"Just so y'know, _agent_," Biggs leered, assuming the proper stance. "Yesterday, I wasn't even _tryin_'."

"Really." And Strife entered a stance of his own, meeting the other's gaze evenly. "Neither was I."

And in a gust of wind, they started.

* * *

The three days of training had at last come to past, and with it what time was needed to get things fully set up. What little time there was to cram had reaped its results, and these results he would have to milk to the fullest.

He had not been surprised when he was supplied with a set of light armor, but as he suited up, he wondered how long it would actually last him during the fight to follow. Across the room, Leon was sending him questioning glances as Xigbar was attempting to keep his attention.

Strife reached into his pocket, and he pulled out the keyblade that Gippal had given him – its thin blue edge looked too clean – too new – in his hand… As he stared at it longer, he turned it to watch its edges play with the light.

"…believing helps," he repeated to himself thoughtfully. At last, he slipped it back into his pocket and reached for the last of his equipment; a small earpiece fitted into his left ear, and almost immediately a tinny voice filtered in.

"**Agent Strife. Can you hear me?"**

"Yes."

"**That's good. Are you ready to proceed?"**

"Yes," Strife repeated firmly, before he could think better of it. Across the room, he could see Leon finally listening to what the trainer had to say.

"**We'll start as soon as possible."** And then Leon was walking away briskly from the trainer altogether, tense and angry.

"…he told him what we're about to do, didn't he?" Strife guessed dryly. When no answer came to the rhetorical question, he sighed audibly and started to cross the room. "I'll handle this."

"**Agent, for your own safety, you should stay back-"**

"If this doesn't get him going," Strife interrupted, his footsteps never halting. "Nothing else will… We'll need some privacy."

Strangely obliging, there was a muffled click on the other end. As the agent at last reached his partner, he found the man more irate than usual. Already, he looked the part of a beast backed into a corner, eyes darting back and forth as his entire body remained rigid.

"I am _not_ doing this," the brunet growled under his breath, once he judged that Xigbar was out of earshot. "This is…_insane_."

"We have to," Strife answered evenly. "There's something that I need to do, and I can only do it when you're berserk."

"Then don't do it."

"Leon, this is necessary."

"No, it's not," the brunet snapped back, eyes narrowed into near slits. "I'm not going through this again. Not now. Not ever. Not with this _taste_ still there…"

Again, Leon was backing out. This time, Strife knew why. With that knowledge – with his experience – in mind, his anger was slower to rise as he once again confronted the one before him. As much as neither one of them was ready to do this again, they _had_ to. They had come too far to turn back now, to go back to the way things used to be.

He had not wanted to resort to this, but Strife knew now – more than ever – that he had to. Even if it did not work, Leon needed to know the truth. Regardless, he needed a moment to gather himself before speaking.

"Leon, listen to me." And as the other met his gaze, he gave him that truth: "Two weeks ago, in the recreation room, I attacked you."

Silver eyes widened, and the brunet took another step back. Strife stepped forward, keeping the space between them unchanged. He was still speaking…

"I wanted you to go berserk, to show me your true capabilities – everything that made you infamous. You refused, and I attacked you. You were handicapped, and I abused that to strike at you.

"I was ready to kill you if that was what it took to bring out the Griever fully. I threatened to do just that…and you defended yourself by giving me exactly what I wanted."

The distance was closed between them. Strife was waiting for that spark of light he knew would reveal itself. Nothing yet…not yet…

"That day you went berserk, you beat me to near death. That blood you taste now, it came from me.

"The one you attacked that day was me, and I want you now to do it again."

…still nothing…

"Remember yet, Griever?"

And then it happened, so sudden that he missed the exact moment of the light flashing from those silvery depths. He heard a second muffled click in his left ear, and the voice came back.

"**Thirty percent, agent-"** his senses were suddenly screaming at him, but his reaction was a second too slow. The next thing he knew, he was suspended in the air; all that kept him off the ground being a hand wrapped around his throat.

And he could see it – the soft glow of silver light that was but the beginnings of a long, hard battle ahead. And the one who beheld that glow slowly bared his teeth in a familiar feral grin.

Too fast, Strife realized. There was a cold feeling of dread sinking deep into his stomach. He had not even the time to react; everything was going too fast…

"_**Thanks for reminding me**__,_" the Griever rumbled, his fingers slowly tightening their grip. "_**It's about time I finished what I started…**_"


	8. The First and the Last

_I spoke too soon about Chapter 8. Nevertheless, here it finally - FINALLY - is. Again, I thank everyone for your patience, and a big welcome to all the newer readers who have since added Gunmetal to their alerts and favorites. Hope you'll be staying with us!_

_(More detailed commentary to follow in dA Journal update.)  
_

* * *

It was as though his soul had already left his body, the way he could regard all about him while feeling so…_detached_, for lack of a better word. The crushing pain of before now seemed to tune out, as he became a bystander of his own fate. He thought he could perhaps see himself – the miserable way he looked – as he struggled against the vice-like grip that was getting tighter with each passing second. He alone moved, as though the rest of the room was frozen in time…in fear.

And as he remained so distant from the body that acted on desperate survival instincts alone, he could see the look on the Griever's face; he could see the way his hand was moving with professional precision. And then, with slowed, muted shock, he realized he recognized that move.

The same move that had killed many of their previous targets, when the occasion had demanded so; efficient, deadly, and with little show. All it required was one strong hand, and the fingers that knew just where to slide and apply their pressure…before a sudden and quick dislocation.

_He's preparing to snap my neck,_ Strife realized. _He really is going to kill me._

There was that gleam in his berserk partner's eye – that gleam he had known before and suddenly feared. It spoke of a quiet delight in what was proceeding, as the man felt that thrill he was only granted with such missions. There was that excitement for the kill, and as Strife saw it, he knew he was running out of time.

_Stay calm. Regain control. Stay calm, and think. There has to be one place where he is vulnerable and unaware._

He could feel the fingers sliding, feeling along the back of his neck for the connecting points between vertebrae.

_Come on, think…_THINK_. He knows you. He knows what you would do, what you _will_ do. What is the one thing you have never done before?_

_Find that weakness._

_Use it._

He felt the pressure let up slightly, the Griever still grinning near manically. The fingers located right behind his neck started to move. He had run out of time.

Strife's mind blanked in an instant, but his body was moving again, his legs drawing up together – knees toward the chest – before striking out suddenly and forcefully. He couldn't even see where he was aiming, but he knew that it mattered – was it too high? Too low?

There was a decisive "crack", followed by a soft, startled choke, and he knew he had hit the right spot just as the Griever abruptly released him to drop upon the floor. That detached sensation of earlier was gone, and he once again felt throbbing pain from the bruising marks that had been left behind on his skin. Yet, as he watched the Griever fall to his knees and curl into himself with a pained moan, he knew the other was feeling once more the agony from previous mortal injuries that – while healed – would never truly disappear.

He had barely recovered himself when he heard a hoarse chuckle, the Griever already gathering himself and pushing off the floor. Still, his hand did not move from its place as he spoke: "_**Not going to just roll over and take it like the first time, are you?**_"

"It was a stupid mistake," Strife retorted, noting the raspy quality of his own voice, what with the abuse his throat had gone through. "One I don't intend to repeat…"

There was a silence as glowing eyes regarded him with an unknown emotion. Then the grin crawled back into place, as the Griever slowly continued picking himself up. "_**I see,**_" he rumbled quietly, his gaze never breaking, "_**this could get interesting.**_"

Strife winced at a sudden burst of static in his ear; a brief second followed with a tinny voice that retained an edge of panic: "**Agent, are you alright?!**"

"What is the percentage?"

"**Agent, is-**"

"_What_," Strife repeated firmly, as his voice was starting to clear at last, "_is the percentage_?"

There was a pause, and it was only after a few seconds of precious time before the surprised staff on the safe side of the wall replied: "**It…it is forty percent, agent.**"

Forty percent; the same as that last time… Except this time, he was ready. He could, properly, fight back.

"**Hang on, agent; we're pulling you out of there.**"

"Not necessary," Strife broke in tersely. Throughout, his eyes never left the form of the other – the Griever was moving with deliberate sluggishness, as though sizing him up. Slowly, as one man moved, the other moved to match him. They always faced each other, as though this were no more than a ritual dance. "I will continue."

"**Agent Strife, you can't-!**"

"I want to finish this," he cut the other off once more, still keeping as much attention on his partner – now his opponent – as he could. "I _am not_ backing out."

* * *

Behind the protective barrier, the one manning the small headset was about to start another protest when a gloved hand reached forward and switched the device off. He turned at once, any demands for explanation dying quickly as he saw who exactly had been responsible. All he could manage was a quiet, uncertain, "…sir?"

There was an unspoken question, to which was given its answer: "We will let him do as he wishes."

"Superior," another voiced out quietly, "is this wise? He could die in there."

"He could also succeed." As he spoke, the head of Organization XIII was watching the pair of partners that slowly circled one another. His brass-colored eyes were burning with an eerie intensity, and a predatory smirk of his own crept upon his face. He continued to address his fellow:

"It has been so long since we last saw our private investment reveal his hidden power like this. All that time, money, effort, precautions; all that was wasting away…if this agent manages to do what so many could not, then we would have more than just a threat on our lips.

"Just think, if you will-" and without turning his attention away from the coming fight, he addressed the whole room, "-the terrible Griever, the scourge of Organization XIII's enemies, actually out in the open; free to hunt, to strike, and to kill…all with the effectiveness of a clicker-trained pet; even the Don himself would think twice about touching our Guardians again."

"And if that agent…fails, sir?"

It was only now that there was pause, as all awaited their leader's response. He, in turn, seemed to think it over for just a moment.

"This Guardian is already fully matured. That and considering who exactly we're looking at, it will be near impossible to find him a replacement…" With the admittance came a chilling conclusion, "if he resists confinement, have him permanently deactivated."

"And what would you tell the senators?"

"What _would_ I tell them, Saix?"

Silence fell upon the small gathering, and at last the leader's personal Guardian nodded to the staff. Point reinforced, the device was switched on once more.

"**You have the authorization…to continue, agent. Good luck.**"

* * *

There was no time for even a word of thanks; in less than a heartbeat, the Griever suddenly seemed to just vanish. Before his training, Strife knew he would have been taken down in an instant; this time, he understood what was coming his way, and obeyed his heightened senses to dodge before they finished screaming their warnings. He remained on high alert, and was moving again before he could fully land, feeling the force that barely brushed against his side.

Vincent had been right, after all – what little Strife had learned in his three days of sparring with Gippal and Biggs, he now used for all it was worth and beyond. The strikes that lashed out at his joints and abdomen were fast and with little announcement. Yet, the projectiles that sliced toward him then had been only a means of attack by an attacker; here, the Griever _was_ the projectile, able to move and adapt in manners that the non-living could not. Several times, the blond agent was forced to vault away completely, if only to narrowly miss another powerful lunge.

Other times, he just was not fast enough.

A dark blur appeared to his right, striking and just missing his kneecap as he twisted out of the way. From within the still-moving blur, something flew out like a bolt of lightning, and as it connected with his jawbone, pain exploded into a thousand stars in his vision. His head was ringing, and he staggered backward. Something thick was trickling down the side of his jaw…

Standing opposite was the Griever, and on his bare knuckles was a bold streak of fresh blood. The two locked in a steadfast gaze, both bearing teeth – one in an angry growl, the other in an arrogant sneer. The brunet had halted his attacks for the moment, giving his opponent time to recover. Giving patronizing slack…

_You're enjoying this, aren't you?_

From the added spark to those glowing silver orbs, he knew the answer was a definite affirmative; the red-stained hand lifted, and a tongue slid deliberately over the blood that had come from the agent. The man – the beast – was mocking him; he knew that he was superior in this arena, and now he rubbed it in like salt to a wound.

"**Forty-five percent.**"

That was it; all that effort, and only a measly five percent. A five percent that had him giving nearly all he had to just survive. All the Griever had needed against him was an additional five percent – it was infuriating to think about.

The Griever licked at the back of his palm for a moment longer, and then held out his hands in a welcoming gesture. As Strife watched, two slick wet fingers crooked twice, in invitation to play.

"This is a game to you, isn't it?" Strife spat out fiercely; frustration and pain was taking its toll on him, and he hated how he was losing control already. "Nothing but a _damned game_…?"

The movement was faster than he anticipated, as fingers that were not there seconds before were suddenly caressing the hard curves along his abdomen. They were not moving for a kill, but explored in a fleeting manner that was perhaps curious, streaking damp lines over the agent's armor – armor that suddenly seemed as useful as a sheet of paper. A hot gust of breath hit his bruised neck, as a voice rumbled low and deep in his ear.

"_**If I were serious,**_" the Griever spoke in a purr, "_**you wouldn't have any ribs left.**_"

The agent reacted instantly, his fist flying toward the other's smug grin. The anticipated hand came up to catch it mid-strike, and his other fist surged for a lower area. The catch was made inches from the Griever's chest, and Strife lunged forward with a furious snarl, his head ramming hard and fast toward the other.

There was a second explosion of pain as head connected hard with head. He remained there, movement slowed to a near stop, still leaning heavily forward. He was granted a step, and then he was suddenly on his back with the other hovering above him on hands and knees.

Through the muffled sounds about him, he thought he could hear a soft panting. Looking up, he found, through the veil of light, eyes that were not as sharp as they should be; that last strike had winded him more than he was letting on. It was a small comfort that did not last; the Griever was already recovering, shifting his position to properly straddle the agent beneath him.

Their heads were so close, their noses touched; even if had wanted to, Strife knew he did not have it left in him to attempt a second strike. If he lost consciousness here, it would all be over. He needed an alternative. His fingers were brushing something hard, pressed against his right leg. Remembering what it was, he reached into his pocket and felt for the cool metal surface he knew would be there.

His eyes never left the other, and just as he reached to pull the object from its hiding place, the Griever moved even closer…too close for comfort… A knee was raised, expertly pinning him in place by his lower torso. The right hand placed itself by his ear, and the left pinched his chin firmly, forcing his head to tilt upward, to look directly at him. Staring into that slowly increasing light, he could feel the other challenging him to move. He remained still, except for the hand that now left his pocket. His fist was clenched, concealing his unsheathed weapon from sight.

Oblivious, the Griever drew back ever so slightly, still maintaining his domineering gaze on the other. He was leering, as he took in the other's fallen form; he looked the part of a large cat that had a live mouse in his grasp, contemplating on the immediate future: should he play? Should he eat?

Strife was hiding what fear he had, and all he showed on his face was a stern mask of defiance. The Griever purred, and his tongue was running over his teeth as his fingers clenched tighter on the chin they had yet to leave go of. "_**Pisses you off, doesn't it?**_"

The mask held its place, but Strife raised a brow, bidding the other continue. For a moment, they held the façade that they were companions again, just talking instead of fighting each other for survival. They pretended that it was just the two of them, where words could come and go in an easy banter. Their roles had reversed: the agent who held all the words was now silent, wary of what the other was up to. The Guardian who had resigned himself to silence for so long, now spoke with ease, even as he kept up with what he was doing…

"_**I know you too well. Even faced with death…**_" the hand left his chin, his palm instead applying pressure on his collarbone… "_**You really hate to lose.**_"

Strife's thumb reached within the crook of his fingers, pushing the small metal object into place. He turned his hand, readying it…

"…yeah," he answered at last, his voice barely above a whisper. Keeping his breathing even, he composed himself. He had only one strike… "…same to you."

His clenched fist jerked sharply, and a high-pitched whine echoed as a blue hook raked down the length of the Griever's forearm, metal grinding against bone. The keyblade came free just short of the wrist, hot blood spraying violently through a bright red line. The Griever was rearing up, his knee lifting away from its previous pivot, and his hand was clutching at the newly formed wound that had to be nothing less than excruciating, even for him. A pained scream was being distorted into a bestial roar, the Griever's head thrown back in agony.

Strife's left fist struck out, this time hitting an unguarded jaw. The Griever was thrown off him, and the Guardian remained where he landed, curled in a semi-fetal position as he cradled his bleeding, spasming arm. The air was filled with a soft growling, and just for that brief moment, Strife was brought back to the one other time he had seen his partner in this much pain.

The guilt was building in his gut, and it left him nauseated. He looked down at his still clenched fist, and as he opened it at last, he saw the once bright and clear blue metal was marred with dark blood. A coppery tear was wept from the now malicious hook, and it slid down his hand to fall to the floor. That first time, the other had willingly taken the injury to save his life. This time, he had been the one responsible.

…_I hurt him__ again,_ he realized dully. _How different is this from what I usually do?_

_If I want so badly to help him, why do I keep hurting him…?_

The growl deepened, increasing in volume, and the Griever slowly uncurled himself. Eyes that had been glowing a moment ago seemed so much dimmer compared to the fierce fire that was burning now with mad fury. Bared teeth contorted his face in a snarl, canines parting slowly in anticipation for blood. With each heartbeat that pounded in his ear, Strife saw less of a man in that visage, but more of an animal; a wrathful beast seeking vengeance.

The agent slowly rose to his feet, never letting his gaze leave the other for even a second. Dark brows arched over those opaque radiant orbs that eyelids had narrowed into bare slits. Swallowing, Strife spoke carefully, this time to the ones that sat and remained so uninvolved: "…percentage."

There was a silence, then a crackle of static before he received his answer. "**Sixty-five…seventy percent and rising, agent.**"

So it would seem; he had managed to push the right buttons. This was no longer a game; the angered beast was well and truly coming forth, wanting no more than to streak the floor with his guts. A part of him was aware that he was finally getting closer to his goal, yet the nauseating feeling within him remained, even as the soiled blade was still snug where it lay in the grooves of his palm.

Hands separated, and that dark red tear in the Griever's forearm streamed blood downward in a steady flow. The brunet Guardian assumed a stance of attack, crouching low on all fours without so much as favoring his left side; a dark pool was slowly forming around the palm that was upon the floor. As the Griever turned to face the agent before him, something caught a bit of light just under his chin.

Strife found himself staring openly at the dangling pendant – the silver lion's head. Now, more than ever, he realized those chain links truly did look more the part of a restraining choke collar on a dangerous animal than a fashion accessory. Yet, despite the degrading manner it was presented before him – the manner it had always been before – he could still see it: the certain, dignified beauty that so few would notice in it…

The quiet, yet proud strength of a lion…

* * *

"_You're the only living person I know who reminds me that I'm still human," the Griever spoke quietly. "You're all I've got left to keep me sane._

"_Is that not reason enough?"_

* * *

…_human…_

Strife nearly laughed aloud; he had forgotten what this was for. What all that had been done was for. This entire business had been more than the mission; he had been after something else – the elimination of restraints: no more mental traps, no more chains or cells…

He wanted to take back Leon's dignity as a person.

As a human.

It was only now that he realized the Griever had not moved at all. He was still tense in his crouch, still snarling viciously at him in readiness for a pounce. As he took in the other's appearance, he wondered if the other was actually hesitating.

More static: "**It's slowing at ninety percent agent; be careful.**"

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came as his whole body suddenly went into shock. The Griever had moved so blindingly quick without making a sound, and he was already behind him before he registered the blood that was pouring down his chest. Then the pain hit, his entire shoulder erupting in burning fire even as his fingers went numb. He had not been granted more than a few seconds to take this all in before he was attacked again.

It was as though a blunt metallic weapon had struck him at the back of his neck, and he could feel blood – more blood – streaming down so profusely that it was entering his ears. Something sharp was embedded so deep they punctured the skin, and he was unable to grasp what it was. Blearily, he wondered if this was what it felt like to be attacked and savaged by a wild Behemoth. The growling had stopped – leaving all that proceeded in a deathly silence – and just as suddenly as he had struck, the Griever let go.

A blood-soaked hand was seizing him by his torn shoulder, jerking him up that they were now face to face. Blood drenched them both now, that their fronts were an equal shade of dark copper. Another hand was raised, arching like a talon as it came right for him. He felt another jolt of pain throughout his body as the impact shook him like a ragdoll. He wondered, briefly, why those fingernails were suddenly that claw-like, and when they had been able to cut into him as they did now…

_Fight back, you idiot!_

His eyes widened, his slowed responses returning to their razor sharp quality in an instant. His mind was clearing, senses screaming at him in desperation.

_Fight back right now or you'll die!_

The natural instinct to survive had finally come to him, and his still-numb hand flung upward blindly. Clamping down on the left arm, his fingers searched and quickly rediscovered the still-bleeding gash. There was no pause to think as he pressed hard and fast into the long thin opening.

Amidst a second pained roar, Strife saw the hand spasm and release him, all that kept him up now being his own vice-like grip on the wound – the Achilles heel that was his one advantage. Turning his body, he started pulling downward until he felt the other slowly yet surely give in. He kept pulling, harder and more insistently with every fiber of his being. It was a struggle now, using what little strength he had left to bring the other under his control.

Both hit the floor bodily, and the agent could only wonder how he managed so swiftly to loop both hands under the Griever's sprawled arms and wrap him in a full nelson. They were both panting heavily, both in so much pain that they were weary to keep this up; yet, neither showed a willingness to yield. They remained there, one kneeling and the other on all fours. They were unmoving, locked in a morbid embrace. Strife could not even bring up the strength to consult the staff.

He received his answer anyway, as the subtle crackle of static nearly threw him off his balance. The words, however, were almost rewarding: "**You've reached ninety-five percent, agent! Hang in there, you've almost got it!**"

Almost...

Almost was not enough.

Almost would never be enough.

"… Hyne damn it," he hissed, more to himself than to any who cared to listen, "Yield already…"

Under him, sharp ears not missing a thing, a reply rumbled back in defiant irritability: "_**And why should I?**_"

There was a second pause, and though they could not see eye to eye, they could still read one another. It was there, in the barest shift of muscles as much as the soft exhalations of exhausted breath. Then Strife heard the other growling again – this time, it was less savage, but as angry as before. Had he not been wounded, the Griever would have thrown him off easily by now; the mark left by the small seemingly insignificant blade that pressed between palm and neck had turned the tables just like that, injuring both the Guardian in body as much as his pride.

Still, he held out, refusing to back down anymore than he had forced to. Forehead leaning heavily into the hard floor, he continued his growling through bared teeth, chest rising and falling steadily. His tag lay flat on the cool hard surface, just short of his chin, beads of sweat sliding down either side of it.

"_**You already took the last twenty years of my life from me,**_" the Griever continued his bitter demand. "_**My freedom, my true strength, and even my memories. I have nothing left save this. Now you want this as well…?**_"

He could feel the one he held fast slowly strengthening; recovering at a speed he could never match. All he could do was hold onto him, clinging tightly without leaving go. All he could do was listen…

"_**After everything you've done to me, still you want to watch me break. Still you want to hear my surrender. You want this so badly, and I ask you: Why should I…?**_

"_**WHY SHOULD I?!**_"

Both of them shook as the Griever slammed his good fist against the floor, testing what little equilibrium they maintained. Managing to keep on his knees, Strife's head slumped forward to rest on the sweat-soaked bronze mane that fell over the Griever's neck. He took a moment to catch his breath, to think about all that had happened. He had to say this right, for the one that was listening now, whoever they were.

"You're my partner," he whispered, a voice so soft that only the intended recipient would hear it. "You're my first, and you will also be my last. There will never be another.

"Trust in me…and surrender…because I'm not letting you go."

Again, there was silence, as the Griever seemed to consider his words. He was not struggling, but neither was he relaxing his stance. Strife maintained the hold, his grip never slackening. They waited, one for the other, for the one decision that would bring this fight to an end.

_Please,_ Strife pleaded. _If there's any of Leon left in you, please…let this work…_

At last, there was a soft sigh; he nearly missed it. When the Griever spoke again, his voice was quiet and weary, with a resigned air.

"_**Don't make me regret this again.**_"

And then he knew – long before the data showed; long before the earpiece crackled again – that he had done it.

"**We have the full hundred percent, Agent Strife – **_**Hurry**_**.**"

He did not need a second invitation. Drawing a deep breath, Strife remained where he was, his head resting on the Griever's neck. Collecting himself, he started to speak words that he had memorized by heart, words that had started clumsy on a tongue that was unused to them. Words that now flowed as naturally as a river of water…

"Vnus drec myht femm E neca…"

He felt the barest tremble beneath him, but the Griever made no further move – there was no sign of resistance. So far so good.

"Dufynt dra cgeac yht paouht E crymm cuyn," the agent continued solemnly. "Drana eh dra mekrdc uv asanymt knaah, E crymm veht oui eh drec adanhym veamt yht cdnays…"

He remembered all that he had learned of _The Last Rhapsody_ prior to this moment: it spoke of a man that met with Minerva, in the Lifestream that surrounded Gaia. It spoke of acceptance, of wishing to be accepted; it spoke of finding peace.

"So ynsc cbnayt feta du oui, Vun drec ec dra vehym nacdehk bmyla…"

The panting had stopped – a sign that the other was fully rested. Still he stayed in his submissive posture, listening quietly to every word that was spoken.

"Dra bmyla frana E lyh yd mycd cmaab eh bayla, Fedr oui nekrd rana, ouin csema ibuh sa."

_And if this is forever, so shall it be._

As the last words flitted through his mind, something warm caressed at them; it seemed foreign, yet not unwelcome. It was wrapping around his head like a soft blanket, triggering off sensations of comfort and pleasure. Something invisible probed gently at his left temple, but he cared little for what it was. And just like that, he felt the other relax in his hold, lowering himself to the ground. He released his once-faithful grip, nearly sliding off the back of the one he had been holding on to.

He was done…

A hand caught his head before it could connect with the floor. Lifting himself partially once more, the exhausted Guardian stared into the agent's eyes, his expression closed off…

"Why can't you ever tell me anything?"

There was a trace of hurt in that voice, as Leon remained in a semi-prostrate position, his hand a pillow for his partner's head. His brows narrowed in frustration as he continued, "Am I that hard to speak to, that you need to resort to things like these? You can't just talk to me, even once…?"

His hand slid out carefully, and he rolled over before sitting up. Back to the other, he stared blankly ahead for a long time. If he was waiting for an answer, the agent never gave him one – he was exhausted and bleeding, ready to drop off at a moment's notice. With a deep sigh, Leon bowed his head, his gaze now trained at the patch of shadowed floor between his knees.

"…by Hyne, I hate you."

There was still no answer; by now, the agent was a little more awake, but still at a loss for what to say. Then there was a dry laugh, and as he watched from where he lay, the brunet was still staring at the floor, but his shoulders were shaking as he was, indeed, chuckling. There was little humor in that laughter – just a tired bitterness of one who could not understand fate and had given up trying to. Leon stayed like that, just laughing, until at last he breathed deeply and lifted his head again.

"…you stupid conceited ass. Just how did I get stuck with you?"

Again no answer was given; no answer was expected. Rising to his feet, Leon flinched and raised his left arm to take in the injury he had received. Dropping said arm back to his side, he instead held out his right in offering to the other. "Time to get up, Cloud. You're not _that _dead yet."

The blond was about to retort when his train of thought caught up with him. His jaw left hanging open, he gaped at the other for a several counts before, "…what did you…?"

Sensing it, Leon met his gaze with a questioning look, head tilting slightly. "… Cloud? You still with me?"

The agent was silent, his blank stare still upon the other. Something had happened there; something he did not understand. Whether it had been at some point during the last verse, or if it had been because of it, he could not tell for sure. He just knew that something…_something_…had been changed between them, so quietly and so subtly, the other did not seem to notice it.

"…Cloud?"

Leon was closer now, his expression concerned as he waited for a verbal response. Realizing he would never truly know what _had_ just occurred between them, he could only sigh in resignation to this turn of events. With a small smile, he merely shook his head.

"It's nothing," Cloud replied, at last accepting the extended hand. "Let's find Vexen."

With an affirmative nod, Leon pulled his partner to his feet, supporting him as they made their way toward the door leading back out into the hallway. As they moved slowly along, the brunet tilted his head in the other's direction. "…you _are_ going to tell me what happened this time, right?"

"… Maybe later."

* * *

Behind the protective barrier, forgotten by one of the pair that took their leave, the one manning the small headset allowed himself a loud rush of breath as he leaned backward.

"That was so _close_," he was commenting aloud, forgetting in his momentary relief that he was not alone. "I can't believe that actually _worked_."

Behind him, letting him be, the Superior of Organization XIII watched the retreating backs of the agent and Guardian. His brass-colored eyes stared hungrily at the back of the one he had not taken his eyes off throughout the entire ordeal, and as they finally left his sight, his smirk widened ever so slightly.

"Saix," he called in summon, "have that agent's handler keep me updated on their progress in the coming month. Let her know I'll be expecting…detailed…reports."

"As you wish, Superior."

The barrier had finally been breached, broken down for what was to come…

For what was only just beginning…


	9. Time to Party

_ATTENTION: Gunmetal is holding character auditions! To apply, read the directions uploaded in my dA journal (alternatively, you can check out my FFNet profile page). There is no set deadline, and any updates on this will be added as notes._

_Well, I suppose this could be considered something of a "filler" episode between volumes. Coming up after this: Roxas' mission. Hope to see you then (and hope to your entries soon)!_

* * *

It echoed through the hall, thump after muffled thump in rapid succession. Punctuating the drumming were wailing cries for mercy, begging for the one responsible to stop. Further, deeper into the mansion, the thumping got louder and louder. The source, that point that was loudest and at perfect clarity, was the master's office.

On the master's mottled rug, bits of red fell and formed new patterns, earning no more than disgusted shakes of the head from one of the many spectators. No one moved to intervened, some even smiling sardonically at the display of violence. There in the center of their ring, the pathetic pleas continued for several long minutes. At last, the master in his chair sighed deeply, and gave the command in a single, precise:

"Atta _boy_!"

At once, the thumping stopped, leaving now only the whimpering of the one curled up in a fetal position on the stained rug. Hovering above him, his attacker was still, frozen in mid-strike with one clenched fist tight and poised for the finishing blow.

Only now did the master move, slowly rising from his seat and walking around the table; everything was deliberate, a savoring of sweet triumph. As the master spoke, his tone was smug, and he swaggered over the one that was completely at his mercy.

"You play in my house, and you're expected to play it _nice_. You play it nice, and the collar stays on." He paused, bending down so that his head was level with the attacker's. He resumed his lecture as though all else were invisible, insignificant. "You _don't_ play it nice, and the collar comes off. It's a simple set of rules… _You hear me?_"

There was a piteous cry as a pudgy hand decorated with gaudy rings struck in a particularly vulnerable area. The attacker did not move at all, holding the man down as his master vented his frustration on his hapless victim. Finally, the master delivered a final, disgruntled kick at the man's inner thigh.

"_Much obliged_! Dumb _shit_… Get him out of my sight," he ordered, prompting two of the four present henchmen to take hold of the man and start dragging him out. Smugly, the same pudgy hand pulled the leather band off the table and fastened it around the attacker's neck, as he was finally addressed. "Come on, boy; come here."

By the time the door slammed shut, the now collared attacker was seated on the floor under a portrait, hunched forward and staring blankly at the side of the desk. Back in his chair, the master sighed again, his stance weary, before helping himself to a bit of cake on his platter. After chewing on the mouthful, he swallowed, smacked his lips, and turned to the remaining pair of henchmen still with him.

"Y'know, I had a dream last night," and sensing that their lord was in a better mood, the men relaxed and paid attention to what he said next, "I was sitting under one of those umbrellas…that they make out of palm leaves, y'know? And these beautiful golden-skinned girls dressed in…" there was another pause, as hands gestured a little in effort to find the right words, "…just, like, little grass skirts…the skin they were born in, y'know? They came over, one after the other, and they brought me a drink in a coconut. And as they served me the drink, they brushed their tits across my face."

"Oh, bloody hell…" one of them muttered, his face a display of open intrigue. Next to him, the other sniggered, much to his annoyance. "Aw, shut it Lefty! Like _ya_ ain't thinkin' it..!"

"Ah well…" and the master was speaking again, as though he had never been interrupted. "That was the end of the best bits; after the girls, the whole thing turned to shit… This giant son of a…y'know…? He just turned up with a machine gun, just started blasting away, until there was nothing left… Nothing but… blood and guts, and… bits of body everywhere… a real nightmare."

"… Nice one, boss…!" the latter of the pair uttered quietly in sympathy; all he received was a dismissive grunt before the master turned back to the one he had set down beside him.

"Bet you never had a dream in your life, have you…?" Receiving no answer, he merely shrugged, accepting it as the norm. Playing with the leftover sweets on his platter, he gave his comment: "That must be nice… Must be peaceful… Here, have some of that."

At last, the attacker moved, meekly accepting the rolled up ball of cake into his mouth, chewing it quietly as the master wiped his hands clean on a napkin; he lay back with another dismissive grunt.

"… I hate dreams."

* * *

As he slowly roused, the first to register in Cloud's mind was warmth – it came mainly from his back, enveloping him in a protective embrace. He was vaguely aware that the source of that warmth was also partially serving as his pillow, and for a few seconds more, none of it bothered him in the slightest. Then those faithful seconds of leniency passed, and his mind cleared to remind him of his current predicament. All of a sudden, the low buzzing by his ear was not as acceptable as it had once been.

The first night it had happened, the agent had panicked and bolted from his bed with speed he did not know himself to possess. The second – and then third – night it occurred, he had froze like a deer in headlights for about an hour or so before remembering that this was supposed to happen. Now, a month after, he not only slept through it, but upon awakening merely groaned irritably and reached out to the dresser.

After a moment of fumbling, he at last found the old paperback he had left there solely for this purpose. Flipping it open, he studied the table of contents on the front page – the only page that had been typed instead of handwritten – in search of the topic he was after. All proceeded in silence, save for the still persistent buzzing and the rustle of turning pages. Finally, the man found something of interest.

"_As noted in last month's report, I sent data to Dr. Hollander's office after several weeks of observation," he read. "Dr. Hollander has a hypothesis that these sudden changes are a result of the Guardian states establishing equilibrium. According to this hypothesis, if either inhibition or the berserk state is kept as the dominant, it results in a slope, gradient varying according to how long one state is kept in effect; this results in the Guardian easily entering their dominant state, but great difficulty would be experienced in attempting to revert to the other state._

"_As such, equilibrium would theoretically be the ideal, as it enables the Guardian to switch between states with little to no difficulty. However, personality traits of both the host and spirit are thus forced to coexist, causing these new behaviors that have been reported…"_

While useful to know, it was not what he was after. He turned more pages of the chronically assembled reports until he came across a more appropriate paragraph.

"_The child has been showing more signs of behavior that I believe comes from the Guardian spirit he was junctioned with. Traits have been observed that are commonly associated with a number of felids, more commonly those of lions, tigers and domestic cats. While initially shy and withdrawn, recently Squall has unconsciously expressed desires for body contact, and has adopted a strange ritual of what I assume is one-handed kneading – I find his favorite spot is the stomach area."_

_Wonderful, now how about something I don't know by now… like, maybe,_ how to make him stop_?_

All but wrapped around him from behind and completely ignorant to the tension he was causing, Leon's hand continued fisting and pushing outward in slow repetition on Cloud's T-shirt, massaging the man's abdomen in an overly personal manner. His face partially buried in the back of Cloud's neck, he was purring – _purring! _– with every calm breath he released. All in all, the brunet was quite comfortable where he was.

Cloud, on the other hand, was not.

Again, he glared wearily at the old paperback that at last admitted having nothing to show. A month ago, shortly after the success of the imprinting, clearance had been given to grant him custody of the reports written by Leon's trainers before, during and shortly after he became a Griever. Most of them were penned by the first trainer, and though they seemed unprofessional with frequent additions of personal comments, they had proved useful.

Until now, anyway…

While it explained the sudden urges the Guardian had displayed, such as the cat-like morning rituals and certain predatory instincts that were amusing only on occasion, nothing was there to explain… other behaviors that had emerged. Cloud would have mentioned it to Vincent, if only those behaviors had been a little less awkward to bring up in conversation. Thankfully, he decided, Leon had sensed and reined them in, leaving just the quirky in-manual traits to deal with; for now, he went back to winging it.

"Leon," he spoke, at last, in a fairly irritated manner. The other showed no sign of awareness, though the undesired actions continued without pause. "Leon, get off me."

It took a more insistent jab with his elbow before he finally elicited a grumble of annoyance from the brunet. Regardless, Leon lifted his head to yawn widely before finally drawing back from his partner. Sniffing at the air twice, he proceeded to sit up and scratch at the back of his neck. There was the usual "thunk" of the metallic arm brace as Leon's left hand rapped against the headboard. And all the while, he was staring at the blond with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Still glaring at the other, Cloud commented sarcastically, "If you're not using it, should I just have your room turned into a storage space?"

"Depends," the other replied, as he played along. "What would you put in it?"

"Your head on a spike."

"Then, no. We have an assignment scheduled today, right?"

"Then sleep in it, for Hyne's sake; you had no trouble before. Yes, so get dressed."

"I was also inhibited before. It's your own fault you didn't read the fine print before picking the imprinting process," Leon retorted callously, already off the bed and looking under it. "Where's my shirt?"

"Blame Vincent, he was the one who waved it at me in the first place. It's in the closet." Said closet was investigated at once, and Cloud caught his own top as it was tossed at him. Both conversations went on for a while, as the pair got ready for the day ahead.

"Again, I blame you; you couldn't just talk it through with me in the first place, like – oh, I don't know – _partners_ do? Can I take the arm brace off?"

"And what would you have suggested? We need that certificate, and it _was_ the only sure-proof way to go about getting anything done. You can't even pick up a glass of water without it yet, so no."

"Alright, you made your point. It's been a month already, and I don't like it."

"I thought so. It's your arm that's not healing properly, and you need it."

"Whatever." Both conversations finished as the Guardian tugged his shirt over his head. Sparing a moment to scratch idly at his collarbone – his Griever tag missing from its usual station – he turned and grabbed the doorknob. "I'll wait outside."

Cloud returned a grunt of acknowledgment, just discarding his T-shirt for the top. As he started to pull it on, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the closet door that Leon had left open. Slipping the shirt back off, he walked up to the mounted mirror, his eyes running over the marks he had acquired.

While the Mako had left little of his first encounter with the Griever, the injuries he had sustained from the second had not been life-threatening, thus not warranting the same treatment. A long thin scar traveled down the length of his left clavicle, looped over his left shoulder socket, and – as he turned to look – ended in a rough, messy stroke down his left scapula; he imagined it looked like a wing had been ripped from it.

The theory Vexen held was that the Griever had aimed to take his arm off, but for some reason did not; neither thought too much into it. Regardless, the wound had been delivered mostly over bone area, resulting in a clean healing that caused little hindrance; as long as he minimized his use of First Tsurugi – or, in Vexen's words, "not used it at all" – he would be fine.

Then there were the strange lines that decorated the back of his neck. Running his hand over them, he singled one out for closer inspection; up close in the mirror, Cloud saw a distinctive crescent shape, the broad arch facing inward. All of them looked that way. It was as though these scars had been made by claws, or even teeth; they left questions, too many questions that he could not answer.

As he heard the tell-tale clinking out in the living room, Cloud's concerns left the recent history engraved on his frame. He recalled, instead, what he learned about the mark he had left on his partner: Vexen explained that, while unintentional on the agent's part, the Brotherhood keyblade had managed to slice deeper than they expected, tearing one of the muscles completely in half. While that strike had given Cloud his needed handicap, Leon had since complained about stiffness in the limb, even in the slightest tasks of picking things up.

Despite the protests, the Guardian _did_ need that brace. He also needed more than just a month to fully recover. They, however, did not have that long. Duty called, and duty was what ultimately put food on the table.

With that thought in mind, Cloud at last pulled the top over his head, tugging it into place before turning his attention to the other contents of the closet. It took him a moment longer to change into the rest of his attire, and as he stepped out into the living room, he found his partner by the window, staring through the glass with an intensity that could have melted it.

"_Leon_," he ordered firmly. "Leave Huey alone."

"That's Dewey," Leon replied, all without turning his attention from the small white duck that waddled along a neighbor's balcony in his immediate line of vision. "His bandanna's blue."

"I don't care which it is; just leave it alone," Cloud retorted. "Donald is still on our case for that time you tried to harpoon one of them through the house with a fork tied to a spool of twine last week."

"It was instinct; Louie was flapping for takeoff," the brunet replied lamely; his partner could only shake his head in exasperation before grabbing his keys off the table.

"Forget it. Now come on; we're getting some breakfast before the pre-mission briefing. What do you want to eat?"

"That duck."

The agent breathed another tired sigh before trying a different approach: "… How about a steak? Medium rare, lightly seasoned with the chef's special herb and spice mix, fresh off the grill – just the way you like it."

"… Fine…" and Leon finally turned away from the window with a measure of reluctance. As muffled quacking sounded in his wake, he muttered darkly, "or you could just give me five minutes alone with the duck, and I'll-"

"I said, _no_."

* * *

The safe house was located just outside of town, within the gray area separating civilization from wilderness. Most assumed it was an old abandoned station that had survived the war, and everyone left it alone; especially after Organization XIII acquired it – and the land it occupied – for their shadier work.

As of current events, that safe house was also the rendezvous point the partners had been employing through the month of "probation" missions – tasks given to test their newly established bond for its capabilities as much as its limits. While theoretically their busiest month, it also proved to be the dullest month; despite being a level above running errands, it could bore an agent to tears.

"Look down there."

Leon shifted in the sidecar, his eyes sweeping over the plains that surrounded the single homestead until he picked out two figures moving about in the distance. Recognizing them at once, he smirked. "Our trainees are here early."

"Lucky, lucky me," Cloud replied morosely. Turning his motorcycle, he started down the dirt road that led to the safe house. "I hate training missions."

"I've been meaning to ask about that, actually," the Guardian countered, even as he resumed examining the insides of the brown bag for any leftovers he might have missed. "How _did_ you manage to get us stuck with babysitting these kids?"

"Your three lady friends advised me for V-Day." There was a momentary pause as the motorcycle went over a bump. "I told them I owed them one, and they decided to call in the favor."

Humming in acknowledgement, Leon at last folded the empty bag and pocketed it for later disposal. "Still no sign of Paine's rookie, though."

"Bartz didn't make it through his Advancement Exam."

"Again?"

"Again. Are we within hearing range?" This time, he was answered with a nod. "On to business, then… Zidane. Tidus."

The pair of youths that had been passing a ball back and forth halted their game at once; said ball flipped through the air and landed softly, balancing on the taller one's head. Both boys were grinning as their temporary overseers rode in.

"Agent Strife! Leon! You made it!"

"And you're here three hours before the arranged time," Cloud answered tersely. "What's this about?"

"What, no 'good job for getting here early' and all that?" At a stern look from his senior, Tidus dropped the ball into his hand before continuing. "There was a change in today's plans."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"Zexion's probably only just sending the update now," – sure enough, there was a vibration in Cloud's pocket – "We only got it so quick cos' we were at the academy this morning."

Zidane waited for Cloud to finish consulting his headset before he asked, "So what's going on, chief?"

"We'll talk about that during the mission brief," the agent answered, his hand flipping the phone shut and stashing it away once more. He and his partner dismounted and made their way up the steps of the porch and into the house. "I'll have a word with Lockhart first; until you're summoned in, the time is yours. And Zidane."

"Yeah, sir?"

"Don't touch my bike."

The door shut behind them, and the boys stared from it to one another for a moment longer. Finally, Tidus flipped the ball to Zidane; Zidane passed it back, and the game resumed.

"Think this is serious?"

"Probably," – Tidus took a few seconds to dribble before passing again – "but if they're still letting us in on it, it can't be all that bad."

* * *

"Just how bad are we talking about, Tifa?"

The three – agent, Guardian and handler – had positioned themselves in the homestead's kitchen, where the walls would keep their conversation as confidential as possible from the trainees. There was a soft rustle as Tifa "Lockhart" gathered up some papers into a neat stack.

"It's not unsalvageable, but it's definitely bad," she replied, before tossing the stack back to the table with an air of frustration-driven callousness. "For lack of a better expression: Hyne has, well and truly, screwed us over."

"What happened?" Cloud probed further, his eyes following the papers as they landed in a semi-messy heap.

"The last mole from Deep Eyes was caught – hand down the cookie jar – last night," Tifa informed bitterly. "The nearest station guards found him at about one-thirty this morning, trussed up, stripped down, and beaten within an inch of his life. He'll live, but this means we've lost both our contact _and_ our ticket to the inside. Right on the big day itself, and our original plan is fit for a shredder."

The agent could only groan, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose firmly. For an Organization XIII mission plan, the first was the best, the easiest, and the fastest; most of Cloud and Leon's missions had all succeeded with the first plan. The second – or even the third – were usually equally as workable, but from what he recalled in experience, they managed to also be more awkward to carry out.

Nevertheless, it was his duty to ask: "Is there another way in?"

"Yes," was the admittance, "but you're not going to like it."

He had expected as much.

"Does it matter?"

"Okay, then, Plan B it is. Here's what we'll have to do…"

* * *

"It's gonna go too high."

Zidane snorted at the advice, readying his throw. "No, it isn't."

"I'm telling you, it's gonna go too high."

"I'm an agent in training! I've thrown grenades like this with no problem."

"Technically, a ball's not a grenade."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, for one thing, it's gonna go-"

The ball flew upward, a few good inches above the intended target: the sidecar's seat.

"-too high," Tidus concluded, sending Zidane a knowing look. The latter only shrugged.

As the ball sailed through the air toward the house, it barely tapped on the wooden door before that door was slammed open; the ball shot dead center into the hollow of the seat with the impact force of a small rocket, causing the motorcycle's frame to shudder before settling. Standing in the doorway, Cloud glared darkly at the pair of trainees. If looks could kill, they and the daisies would be six feet under.

"_In_." The agent growled. "_Now_."

Then, without waiting to see if any would follow, he turned and strode back in, revealing their handler leaning on the wall rather casually. She and the shell-shocked trainees stared after his retreating back for a minute more, before Tifa helpfully offered: "Well, I _did_ say you were not going to like it."

Something slammed with enough force to hint damage, followed by a strangely eerie silence. Dismissing it as the usual, Tifa waved the boys in.

"Come on; we've got a mission brief to do."

Five minutes later, the small group of five was gathered in the basement. The lights were dimmed, the projector humming to life as the first image was displayed on a large screen at the far wall – the headshot of a bald, pudgy man with a smug look on his face. Sitting just slightly apart from the others, Tifa started the briefing:

"Master Bartholomew Sykes," she introduced. "Eleven years ago, following Lord Palmer's death, he was found to be the sole successor to the Palmer estate. There were debates about foul play at work, but he officially inherited everything by the end of that same year. In the time after that, he took over most of Lord Palmer's former duties, including overseeing Radiant Garden's Space Exploration Order."

As she spoke, the slides changed, showing more visuals regarding the target. She paused, just as another slide came up; a rather different slide.

"However, it would seem that most of the funds for the Order don't go into any of her projects, but something else altogether. Deep Eyes has found out that Master Sykes is using the money to run a business of his own, right under his mansion: gladiator games. As often as several times a week, he invites 'special' guests – anyone who follows his rules – to participate. Personal Guardians – strictly Fenrirs – are pit against each other in a fight to the death."

Another headshot was shown, this time of a boy no older than the trainees; he seemed completely muted, staring ahead with a deathly blank expression. Fat fingers – presumably the master's – were hooking into a fancy collar – a wolf's head engraved into a mounted tag – that decorated the youngster's chafed neck.

"Master Sykes is both overseer and participant in these games; every time, he has been reported to always have a new Fenrir, nearly always a champion. After each boy successfully clears the final round, reports say that he is then sold off to the man with the highest offer. He has been abusing the license of Personal Acquisition that he purchased from the Organization for this purpose; all the boys share the original papers, and all of them are called 'Danny'.

"These pictures were taken by Deep Eyes' moles; three were sent in early this year. As of this morning, not one of them remains. It was not until the second mole was found dead before Deep Eyes came to us for the job. We will have to open that window of opportunity for the police to move in, but we're free to use any means necessary. Of course, it's so long as we leave enough legal evidence to work with. This one, however, will be paid out of our Superior's pocket."

A hand came up – Tidus'. "Can I ask why?"

It was Cloud who answered; his tone was still dark, but not as deadly: "Bart Sykes gets his new champions by two means: either winning bets where Personal Guardians are the wager, or kidnapping. He's been capturing Guardians from their stations, always covering it up to prevent police interference. Fields, trainees, Personals, even rogues – he doesn't care which, just so long as they fit his license's limitations.

"He has made this very, very personal – Organization XIII was just waiting for Deep Eyes to pass the buck."

"And now that they have," Tifa continued, "it's about time for us to return the favor."

Leon took the cue to rise from his seat and cross the basement. Two consecutive clicks followed, and the lights returned to full brightness, the projector in turn powering down. With the presentation over, it was now on to the second part of the briefing: the "attack" plan.

"I'll get everything ready; you boys have fun."

Nodding his thanks to Tifa, Cloud took over the directions as the door clicked shut behind her.

"Now that we've lost our contact, things will be carried out somewhat differently; your trainers are confident you won't have any trouble following through with the new plan. So, stop me if you do."

A floor plan was rolled out, laid flat on the ground as the four gathered around it. With a pencil in hand, Cloud pointed out first the entrance and then one of the far walls.

"We'll move in two teams. The invitation rules state only one valet per party, so we'll have to split you up for a bit. Tidus, once we reach the outside perimeter of the mansion, you need to get to this wall behind the courtyard; make sure nobody sees you. Zidane, you'll enter through the front gate with Leon and me; once our invitation checks out, make your way to the courtyard and stay there. Lockhart is supplying you with a pager alongside your uniform; keep it on your person at all times. The two of you will be on standby until we go to the second phase."

The pencil started to travel, through the front doors and into the mansion itself.

"Leon and I will enter the mansion, and then secure a way to the 'inside'. Leon will buy us some time in the arena, and I will make my way to Sykes' office. Our objective is that license of Personal Acquisition; it's in a small safe with a magnetic lock. Here's where we go to the second phase."

The pencil hopped into the courtyard, circling the whole interior.

"Zidane, when your pager goes off, check it at once – it will either read 'MF' or 'P2'. 'MF' is Mission Failure, which means you need to get to Tidus and bail out of there as quickly as possible. 'P2' means we're into the second phase; if the courtyard's not empty by then, you'll have to find a way to clear at least the back wall. Get Tidus into the mansion without raising any alarm."

Somewhere in the interior of the mansion's layout, the pencil found and marked out a small rectangle.

"The both of you need to locate the maintenance room and cut the power; disconnecting or severing the wires would be too obvious, but we can do something else."

"Soak the works until it shorts?" Tidus suggested, his brows dancing. Cloud nodded.

"With the power out, the safe will unlock. You two will leave the premises and meet up with Lockhart; after that, you're done. Leon and I will keep Sykes in for Deep Eyes to make the arrest."

"I thought we're supposed to stick together on missions."

"Not this one. Don't worry; regardless of the outcome, you do your part right and you've passed. If everyone's clear on what they have to do, then let's get ready. Briefing's over."

The trainees were out first, exchanging puzzled looks as they ascended the staircase. Staying behind, Leon sent Cloud a long, hard stare. Then he raised a brow in question.

"I want them out of my hair as soon as possible," Cloud finally admitted sullenly. "… _especially_ with what Tifa's making me wear…"

* * *

"You boys okay in those outfits?"

There was a chorus of affirmative sounds, though Tidus continued to pick at his jacket in an uncomfortable manner. Both trainees had been disguised as valets, despite Tidus' role to follow – that way, they were at least inconspicuous once they made their entrance. He was still fingering his sleeve when Tifa tapped his shoulder.

"You forgot to remove your tag."

At once, the young blond found the dark metallic bracelet that encircled his left wrist. With a flip of the latch, it was off and deposited in Tifa's waiting hand. Zidane, just sitting opposite, watched with some amusement.

"You'd think with how often you wear it, you'd be glad to get it off for once," he joked.

"Actually, with how often I wear it… I think I feel kind of naked without it," Tidus replied, fingers rubbing lightly at the freed wrist. "… kind of like I'm not wearing any underwear…"

Zidane flinched at the mental image he had subjected himself to. "That's just too much information, man… _way_ too much information."

The small talk was interrupted as a fourth joined them in the living room. Attired in a white dress shirt, a dark blazer and matching dress pants, Leon was adjusting his sleeve to better fit over his arm brace as he stepped up to the coffee table. Next to the Leviathan bracelet, he laid down his Griever pendant in a neat pile of silver chain links. Straightening once more, he looked Tifa's way expectantly.

"Alright, just hold still for a minute…" Reaching into her pocket, Tifa pulled out a heavy silver emblem in the shape of a wolf's head. As she attached it to the blazer's breast pocket, Leon suddenly sniffed at it, expression questioning.

"Yeah, it's Cloud's," she answered, keeping her voice down, "as long as you're pretending to be a Fenrir, he wanted you to wear it; he knows you won't lose it.

"Speaking of Cloud… Is he done yet?"

This time, the brunet answered her with a shrug, his hands busy securing his hair in a small ponytail. Approaching the shut door to the master bedroom – the last impromptu changing room – Tifa hesitated before knocking a few times.

"Cloud, are you ready?" When there was no answer, she tried a little differently, "Are you at least decent? … how about semi-decent?"

At last, there was a gruff reply of "… Yeah…"

"Is it alright if I come in?"

Muffled footsteps echoed, followed by the dull "click" of the door unlocking; more footsteps were heard, and then they halted altogether. Turning the knob, Tifa slipped into the room and locked the door once more behind her. Sitting on the edge of the king-sized mattress, Cloud was missing his shirt but still in his slacks, and he was glaring at the attire he was to wear for the mission, still draped over a chair and untouched.

"I can't believe I'm supposed to do this," he muttered darkly. "Why am I supposed to do this? Hyne, why did I even let you talk me into doing this?"

"You really don't want to do this, huh?"

"Well, it's too bloody late _now_, isn't it?" he snapped in retaliation. Still, she remained where she was, letting him do what he had to at this point – he was not truly angry at her, or anyone for the matter; he was just so very vexed with his situation, and if it required a ranting to help calm him down, a ranting he could have.

And so did the ranting take off.

"_One whole month_ of crawling through _mission_ after _stupid mission_, and I'm _finally_ down to the last one on the list. If I don't this _now_, the trainees don't get their grade. I won't get the evaluation, and I won't get to finish my application for the certificate, which so happens to take _so very long_ to process in matters of paperwork I don't know and don't _care_ to know. It's either this _now_ or _wait_ for the next mission, which who knows _how long_ will take to show up, and then _hey! I won't leave the stupid HQ for half a year more! So glad to screw with you and thank you for your time!_"

And then the ranting was over.

Tifa watched as Cloud's arms – thrust skyward at some point during his outburst – lowered themselves once more. Elbows planted themselves firmly above kneecaps, and Cloud slumped forward, his face buried in his hands as he groaned wearily. Sympathetic to his situation, she crossed the room at last, plopping down on the mattress next to him and placing an arm around his shoulders in a comforting hug.

"This just _sucks_…" he murmured pathetically.

"Oh, sweetie, it'll be okay," she cooed reassuringly. "I promise: once this is all over, you can have as much as you want out of his wine room."

"… Is it good wine?" he asked softly.

"Could be; rich men go for the best, you know."

"Won't Deep Eyes care?"

"Considering what we're doing, they can grant you that much."

A silence followed, allowing Cloud all the time he needed to regain his composure. Tifa finally drew away, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment longer as she broke that silence. "There's about two hours before we have to reach the mansion. Are you still up for this?"

Taking a steadying breath, the agent raised his head once more, his expression stoic. "I have a job to do, and I'll get it done."

"Whenever you're ready…" Patting his shoulder one final time, Tifa rose from her place and headed out of the room. About to close the door, she hesitated, then looked back in. "One more thing."

The agent paused, one hand fingering his disguise, waiting for what she was about to say.

"Be careful with the wig, alright? Just until after the mission-"

In the blink of an eye, Cloud had crossed the room and shut the door firmly, a loud "click" echoing as he locked it once again. Shrugging it off, Tifa turned on her heel and walked back to the living room where the four awaited the verdict.

"He's going to need a minute."

* * *

The ride was silent, tension so thick it could send a lumberjack with a chainsaw into a depressed weep. Long since all had stepped out of the safe house and entered the limousine Deep Eyes had arranged for them, Tidus had quickly ceased picking at his clothes. After all, right across from him, Cloud was undoubtedly the most uncomfortable – and also, surprisingly, the most presentable – in his attire.

The blond agent refused to meet the gaze of any in his team, glaring out the window with his arms folded over his chest. Though, whether he was being defensive or merely self-conscious of the sheer black dress draped around his form, it was hard to tell; most likely, it was both. The tumble of golden locks that was a skillfully woven – and probably expensive – wig did little to conceal the foul mood the man was in.

Next to him, Leon was the only one with enough nerve – and enough capability of self-defense – to reveal a strange amused smile. The trainees, on the other hand, were gaping openly at their superior. At last, Cloud snapped his gaze on them and uttered gutturally, "…_ what_?"

Neither took the hint to just back off – perhaps it was the dress that was to blame – and Zidane numbly answered the question. "I don't know if you're expecting us to laugh, chief, but… I don't think we can. You're just… You look so…" words were lost, the boy waving his hand over the general height of the agent, "… I'm sorry. I'm not gay or anything, but I just can't take my eyes off this."

"In other words, I make a convincing woman," Cloud muttered, voice thickly dripping with contempt and self-loathing. "I think I would have preferred if you laughed."

Suddenly, the limo came to a stop, just a short distance off from the mansion. Tidus was a little too hasty to take his leave, wrestling with the door until he got it open and clambered out. Turning, he cleared his throat and tapped two fingers to his temple in salute. As the limo continued on its way, the Leviathan trainee could be seen disappearing into the night. Spotting the servants that were waiting to meet them at the gate, Cloud sighed deeply and sat up again, straightening the fabric as a second thought.

"Well, this is it. Get ready."

It was only a moment later when the limousine had to stop again. There was a tap at the window, and as it was lowered obligingly, one of the servants peered in, his hand out and waiting as he stated his purpose: "Do you have your invitation, madam?"

A red scroll secured with golden twine was passed, thoroughly assessed, and finally accepted as genuine. The limo was granted passage through the front gates, and slowly pulled into the grounds. Reaching the entrance, all three alighted, allowing the driver to follow more servants' directions out of the general area. Now, there was no more turning back.

"If your valet will come with me," a large butler spoke up from the side, "I will show him to the courtyard."

At a curt nod from Cloud, Zidane meekly followed the man away, toward his own place. With the two of them left, they were becoming aware of the glances from those about them – specifically, those of the Personal Guardians. Each was quite a giant, with arms as thick as barrels, and a swaggering confidence that the small fancy "Fenrir" following the "lady" would be an easy prey.

Leon did not hide a flinch as someone roughly shoved pass his left side. The bulky fellow, shorter than most but still larger than he, turned and growled in his face. "_Watch it, twerp._"

Again, Leon did not rise to the challenge, his right hand wrapping almost protectively over the metal that supported his weaker arm. The Fenrir realized he was not about to get the fight he wanted, and left with a grunt of dissatisfaction.

"Pay them no mind, my dear," someone suddenly spoke up from the side, still managing to sound contemptuously patronizing. "These poor simple brutes tend to be a little rowdy if they are denied their play."

The two turned, at once noting the tall, pale lady clothed fully in a black and purple robe and sporting a horned headdress. Resting upon her thin shoulder was a raven, glaring about the room with the same haughty air as its mistress. It was a credible effort that kept Cloud from revealing his contempt as he bowed gracefully.

"Lady Maleficent."

"You represent Deusericus, I presume?" Not once looking the agent's way, the arrogant noble instead glanced over the tip of her nose at Leon, who was slow to straighten from his previous place. "I am surprised he accepted the invitation; we see _so_ little of him."

"The director prefers to keep his mind to his work, milady," Cloud answered carefully, reciting practiced lines for his part. While Organization XIII's networking had enabled them to enlist the influential businessman's aid, it could only extend so far; caution was necessary with every word. He was saved, fortunately, from any troublesome questions, as Lady Maleficent's attention was not on him or the man he supposedly represented.

Before her scrutinizing eyes, Leon continued to feign weakness, playing the full part of a soft, easy target. Convinced and disappointed, the lady continued, "Perhaps he should have warned you to bring a more… _suitable_ companion, instead of just an accessory like this one. You'd do better with a Guardian, dare I say, that is less of a toy and more of a _proper_ fighter."

His hand was on Leon's arm before he noticed it, and this time Cloud did not hide the defensiveness in his tone as he gave his answer: "I thank you for your concern, milady, but that won't be necessary. Please excuse us."

As he guided Leon further into the mansion, toward the ballroom, the agent could still feel that cold, predatory gaze at his back. As much as he disliked it, it was an indication that the act was working. It was only a matter of time now, so long as they continued to play their cards right.

It was Leon who stopped first, pulling him to a halt a second after. His gaze was trained on a young man – still pretty much a boy, even – who stared back dully with glazed eyes. While many of the Guardians were dressed casually, even sloppily, this one looked as though he had not changed out of his one set of clothes for years. Around his neck was a fancy-looking collar with a mounted tag, a wolf's head engraved into it. Cloud recognized him just moments before an irate voice rang out:

"Danny! _Danny_! You get here _now_, damn it!"

Immediately, the youth hunched his shoulders and meekly returned to his waiting master's side. Master Bartholomew Sykes cuffed the boy sharply on the head in reprimand before homing in on the guest before him. Then Bart Sykes caught sight of Leon, and a strange grin graced his pudgy face as he extended a hand in welcome.

"Well, you're a fresh face, aren't you missy? Here, now, let's have a seat."

As the master directed them to a long luxurious couch and table by a wall, Leon placed himself between the fat host and Cloud, eyes narrowed warily. Unbothered by the subtle warning, the man seemed instead delighted at the proximity as he sharply ordered one of his servants to bring some drinks. In the time it took the stately butler to bring two glasses and a bottle of wine, Sykes was looking over both his guest and "her" companion with almost greedy earnestness.

"He's a rare one," he spoke at last, as though seeing a need to explain himself. "I haven't seen a Fenrir with silver eyes before. How'd you do it?"

"Trade secret," Cloud answered vaguely. Taking it for granted, the man muttered to himself as he continued to look Leon over like a cut of meat.

"And how long you've had him?"

"He's my first Guardian," the agent stated truthfully this time, to which the man grunted in approval.

"Grew him from a puppy, did you? Nice, that… It's like my sainted Mum used to say," – and his fingers found and hooked into the collar around his own Fenrir's neck, almost possessively – "Get them when they're young enough and the possibilities are endless."

"Wise words, milord."

Again, the man took the praise well, releasing his hold on the boy. Leon's eyes widened marginally as Sykes' thick fingers suddenly grabbed his chin and forced him to tilt his head towards him. As though this were but common – perhaps truly so in this household – the man's other hand came up to better examine the Guardian. "Y'know, if you want to sell him…"

"Never," Cloud countered firmly, only receiving another callous grunt in reply.

"Too bad – if it were me, I would really breed this guy. Good build, good skin, and those _eyes_…" And for a moment Leon could see deep into the wealthy man's watery orbs; he could see the maliciousness in them… "Get that silver into enough kids for production…"

"Master Sykes," the agent interjected uncomfortably. "I apologize, milord, but if you're finished…"

"Mm, yes…" And it was only then that Leon was released, the man sitting back once more as he seemed to think something over. Finally: "You familiar with our games here, missy?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Eh, well, it's like this… Just between friends, y'know? We have a little… friendly competition, see? Guardian versus Guardian. All for fun." That malicious look became bolder, more obvious. "Bet your guy there could take out a few if you let him."

Again, Cloud's hand landed over Leon's arm. "I don't know if that is a good idea, Master Sykes."

"Come now, just a little game – nothing to worry about." The man fidgeted, then continued in a low tone, as though passing a secret. "… He can fight, yeah? I mean, I figured his looks are deceiving-"

The hand reflexively tightened its grip as Cloud replied tersely. "Yes, milord, he can."

"So come on, missy. One game," he offered. "Ain't any harm in just one game, yeah?"

This was it; they were in.

Cloud paused, as though hesitating, before he gave his answer quietly. "Alright… but just one…"

"Yeah, that's it… Come this way."

* * *

It was within the mere span of minutes to cross from a deceptively peaceful world, into a darker, more sinister one. The arena was large and went deep, its center the fighting grounds, and the tall cold walls that caged it were the spectators' best seats.

Already, there was a crowd gathered upon the higher ground, protected by the height difference separating them from Fenrirs that were liberally berserk and ready to tear each other apart. Some were there to bet, though not many won. Most of them, however, were drawn there by the prospect of watching a violent, mindless battle, where either one of two opponents would most definitely be given a painful death.

Accustomed to the noise, Sykes led the newest patron to his underground business deeper, down flights of stairs, until they reached a drop point. Already within the arena, a huge impressive-looking Fenrir – huge bulky muscles rippling as he displayed threateningly – awaited his next victim. Three watched from above, knowing what was to happen.

Cloud turned back to the host with an accusing glare. "You said this was all for fun."

"Ah, it is, missy. Nothing but bloody fun," Sykes gave his oily answer. Then he pushed a little harder, "still, if you really think your guy's not good enough…"

The agent tensed, glaring hard at the man. Grinning, he backed off at once, knowing his bait had been taken. Cloud waited for the man to leave them to their business, disappearing into the crowd that demanded blood. Then his attention was returned to his partner, his hand automatically reaching out to help him get his blazer off, then to roll up his sleeves.

"Mind your left, especially if you want to last long enough to reach that boy." he spoke in a low tone, to the only one who could hear him through this chaotic noise. He received a hard look for what seemed a long time, before he clarified: "I'd rather you keep both your arms than win by sacrificing one of them."

The hard stare remained, but slowly changed, and Leon revealed a confident smirk. The hand in its metal armor came up, knuckles squeezing in a strong fist.

_Don't worry about me – I won't lose._

The other hand extended expectantly. Returning the smirk, Cloud removed Zack's emblem from the blazer and placed it almost reverently upon the waiting palm.

"Alright 'Fenrir'," he hissed. "_Fetch._"

A sliver of silver light broke through, and Leon spared only a second to stash the emblem within the safety of his pocket. In a flash of dark color, he leapt from the drop point to the arena – and waiting opponent – on the ground below.

* * *

Sykes delayed in taking his seat of privilege as the host and overseer. At a wave of his hand – signaling the beginning of the next round – the already raucous shouts raised even higher in volume and intensity. To his right sat his own Guardian and, hopefully, new champion. Coming up to his left was one of his more frequent guests…

"You moved faster than even I expected, Master Sykes," she commented slyly. Upon her shoulder, the raven snapped its beak in the air. "If I did not know better, I would think you desperate."

The master scoffed, leaning back as he watched the guest get "her" companion ready. "That piece of fortune is up for grabs, Lady Maleficent – _my_ grabs."

"I still suggest you exercise a little more caution," she insisted quietly, her own eyes also trained on the pair. "No fool would let a crippled fighter into an arena unless they knew they would win."

The master smirked; whether he took her seriously or had a plan was unsure. "Let's just see what happens, then… If it comes to that, anyway…"

Lady Maleficent's focus now came to where the man was rubbing the leather surface of his Guardian's collar. At last, she got up to leave.

"If you _do_ succeed," she left her last comment, "I would appreciate if you remember: _I_ offered for him first."

The host snorted, as though in dismissal, as he brought his full attention upon the fight that was to take place. From his advantageous location, he was unobstructed by those who clamored at the safety railings for a better view. It was a moment later before his expected guest joined him.

Without a word to the man, Cloud took the offered seat to watch the proceedings. He shifted, unaccustomed to his attire as much as the overcrowded environment he was in; the host took it as budding signs of nervousness, only smiling strangely to himself as they now waited.

The two Guardians were circling each other now, something that was so common with the breed that it was a forced tolerance – barely. Angry voices were urging them to hurry up about it, and the much larger Fenrir bared his teeth and cracked his knuckles in an aggressive display. Leon remained quiet, his eyes taking in everything about the opponent in a second. His face was a blank, revealing nothing to his target.

Suddenly, the Fenrir flew from his place with a monstrous bellow. Fists were flying so fast they were but a blur, bearing down in a powerful mass of color and motion toward their intended victim…

…and missing him by a hair.

Leon had seen the charge coming, let it, and then dodged at the last possible minute; his opponent was left completely open, and he seized that chance for his counterattack. His right fist shot upward, finding the hard flesh covering a huge torso…

There was a tremendous explosion of sound through the air, and for a moment there was a stunned silence as the giant was lifted completely off the ground, flew backward a good distance away, and then crashed so heavily that the floor _cracked_ under him. With a choked groan, that chest rose in a struggled breath, and then the Fenrir slumped, lying completely still. Across from him, Leon's fist was still raised, still so tight and ready. His teeth were bared, and his eyes burned now with an unbridled challenge to any and all who read them:

_Who's next?_

The moment passed, and the cheering continued in an uproar; they were not congratulating him, but simply egging him on as one who momentarily entertained them.

Caught completely off guard – irritated, even, by how he had underestimated the situation – Sykes impatiently jabbed his finger downward, signaling for the next contender to get into the arena. Another giant leapt from the drop point, immediately dashing in to meet the smaller man. This time, there was more of a fight, as the two engaged one another in a collision of fists. The crowd kept screaming, demanding for their sport.

Then Leon's strike hit home, driving so hard and fast into the other's face that his nose could be _heard_ breaking. The second giant fell, breathing shallowly as the brunet once more stood triumphant, his fist still tight and expectant of the next man. He turned, his fierce gaze sweeping over the crowd above until he found the one he was seeking out. Silver met with blue, and Leon sharply nodded once.

At once, Cloud knew it was time to fulfill his own role. Breathing deeply, he turned a little as he spoke to the master. "… I think I need some air."

"Yeah..?" Feigning ignorance, the pudgy man gave him a crooked smile as he continued, "I always forget new folks get nerves. Roscoe, Desoto!" – And as the pair of henchmen came forward from their places – "See the lady to my room, will you? Get her a drink or something, for Hyne's sake! Calm her down."

"Right away, boss. Come this way, ma'am."

The man's frustration _burned_ as he waited for the "lady" to take "her" leave of the arena – to take some shelter in the more peaceful environment above – and let him do as he wished away from "her" unknowing eyes. At last, deeming "her" far enough, he jabbed his finger again… then twice more.

The rules had changed.

This time, three Fenrirs came down from their place, encouraged by the ever-growing screams from their fanatic audience. None of them knew what was going on – why their overseer was doing this – but they understood one thing: this was their fun to have.

Scanning over the Guardians that bore toward him, Leon breathed deeply and changed his stance. Perhaps it was time for him to get a little more serious.

* * *

Time was passing too slowly for Tidus' liking. As he struggled to keep his patience, his vigilance and his silence all at once, the young trainee was still restless. He wanted to be in there – doing _something_ – instead of just sitting outside a wall and waiting.

So when the length of a familiar snake whip came down to meet him, he nearly shouted his relief. Instead, he latched on quickly, tested it for strength, and proceeded to clamber up and over the wall. In the courtyard, holding the butt end of the whip, Zidane stepped back to give him more landing space. Safely inside, the Leviathan trainee dusted himself off and looked up. He was greeted by a vast, surprisingly empty place, void of even a sign of all the other valets.

"Piece of cake," Zidane piped up cheerfully. "I'm a con artist."

"… I think I'm impressed," Tidus admitted, then as an afterthought – with raised fingers held slightly apart– "and also a little worried."

Ignoring the subtle criticism, the agent trainee refastened the whip to his belt and beckoned to his teammate, leading him across the mansion grounds. The memorized floor plan was locked in like a steel trap, and it was only a matter of seconds before he had found the unattended maintenance room – with everyone either minding the guests or too engrossed in the games, there would be no one to notice them until it was too late.

"Time to do your thing."

Confidently, Tidus walked up to the cables that lined the side of the metal case within the room. Laying a hand over the cool surface, he closed his eyes and took a calming breath. Searching deep into the black void, he called out to the water in his environment, bidding it to materialize from the air, to appear where he needed it to. He felt a faint stir in his mind, and then another at his finger tips, as he was given an answer.

There was a distinct "thunk", and the entire room was plunged into darkness. Exhaling at last, Tidus opened his eyes, taking his hand away from the box he had just soaked – and then flooded – internally. As he turned, Zidane caught sight of aqua orbs that were strangely vivid even in the absence of light.

"Guess we're done here."

"Guess we are…" Then, suddenly, the shorter blond nodded decisively and headed out the door quickly. "Come on! We gotta get to the others."

"Figured you'd say that," the Leviathan trainee muttered, though an eager smile betrayed his true feelings about the matter. "I'd bet Strife wouldn't be too happy about this, though."

"I have only one thing to say to that, my friend." And in his pause, Zidane straightened to his full height and pointed toward the dark pathway before them. "Those are our allies in there, and if we're to give them some back up, then no cloud, nor squall, shall hinder us."

"Nice line. Where'd you hear it from?"

"What? I can't come up with it myself?" there was a pause and then meekly, "… it was this really good play…"

* * *

It was harder than he thought, he realized. He remembered a time, before, when he had been fairly comfortable with leaving his partner to his business, simply knowing – simply trusting – that all things would turn out for the best; the man would succeed, he would fix him up if he had to, and life would go on.

Now, he found that he was actually worried. There was a sick feeling in his gut that reprimanded him for leaving the other man to fate's devices, and he was not sure what had caused it. He frowned, frustrated with himself and with how things seemed to move so _slowly_. His escorts, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease with the pace they were moving at.

At last, one of them stepped forward and opened the door to a grand, luxurious office – the master's office. On the table, as though waiting for them, was a bottle of wine in a bucket of fresh ice. Behind him, the pair of henchmen exchanged a wink. One of them reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of white powder…

There was a sudden distinct "thunk" as the lights went out in an instant. Cloud sprang into action at once, his elbow striking backward, stinging upon impact with temple of the thinner man. The latter backed from the fight with a high-pitched yelp, and the agent spun once more to engage the other he knew was coming up at him from the side. He could sense the attacks coming, knew to avoid them, and knew how to counter.

What he had been unprepared for was the recovery rate the thinner one had, as a hand suddenly reached out and seized a fistful of hair. With a sharp cry, Cloud was yanked backward before the tie came free, releasing him to hit the floor. His eyes were adjusting to the limited lighting, and he saw the silhouettes of the two men, posed in shock at the clump of hair that was still held tight in a fist.

"A bloody _wig…?_" Then they were advancing again, angrier than before. "_You son of a-!_"

A jet of water shot out of thin air and hit them with the force of a fire hose at full blast, knocking them off their feet, into each other, and then across the office to crash into the desk. Another shadow entered the room, and as Cloud turned for a better look, he saw flashes of aqua light.

"_What are you-?_"

"Later!" Tidus snapped back, already running to engage the men that had risen to fight back. "I swear we'll talk later! Help me out here before these guys kill me!"

* * *

It was now that Leon understood how it was possible for a boy – no matter how highly trained he was – to become champion each time; it wasn't a contest of strength, but of stamina. And judging by the lateness in which that boy would enter the arena, as the last match of the night, whoever lasted all those rounds prior would be too exhausted to defend himself properly.

Facing more and more opponents, he was starting to feel the strain of taking on so many that were his superiors in body mass and weight; the heavier they were, the harder it was for him to knock them over. Especially with them coming at him three at a time.

Already, he was starting to waver, no longer as sure of how many rounds he had already fought. His guard was slipping, and he did not notice a huge fist coming at him until it was bare inches from his ribs. He moved to the side, dropping into a crouch, and then felt the impact nick him in his left arm. As metal chimed loudly in protest, his arm froze in a sudden surge of fiery pain. And then there was only numbness there, followed by a sudden tiredness.

The Fenrir came again, certain that he had winded the other. Leon looked up, saw him bearing down, and at last hurtled himself forward, driving his entire body in a single powerful projectile. His fist struck between the other's eyes, the force of his leap sending the other sprawling on his back. And the Fenrir remained there, knocked out, as the brunet rolled off him and sluggishly got to his feet.

It was the moment that Sykes had been waiting for; his prey was ready to be seized. Grabbing his gladiator by the collar, he growled urgently at him:

"Knock the blighter out, but don't kill him. You so much as damage him permanently in any way, you little sod, and I'll shoot you myself. _You hear me?_"

Then the thumb found the quick-release catch, and shoved down on it. With a "click" the collar came off. The boy's eyes focused, training on the tired man in the arena. His ears heard only one voice, the voice that whispered the command in his ear:

"_Get him_."

And the boy flew from his place like a bolt of black lightning. He did not pause, making a beeline off his seat and through the air, clearing the drop point and entering the arena within seconds. Leon looked up, then flinched and shook his head, blinking rapidly. The boy seized the chance at once and shot right in. A filthy hand seized the brunet about his temple, and with a loud yell, the younger drove the older toward the ground.

A single dull "crack" echoed as Leon connected with the ground, downed for the first time that night. At once he went limp, so still that there was not even a sign of breath. The boy paused, confused by this turn of events, and then frightened as he released the man as though he were burning. He retreated, and that was when his master saw what had happened.

"_YOU STUPID DOG! WHAT DID I JUST_ _SAY?_"

An ominous silence fell on the crowd, hushed commotion replacing the noise of before. This was the first time the overseer had won and been mad about it. What _had_ been going on through this one tournament, that it differed so from all those of before? As they watched in their stunned stupors, the pudgy host waved the collar in his fist at the terrified boy, swearing so hard that spittle flew from his mouth with every word.

"_I'm gonna SELL you, is what I'm gonna do! If you can't do what I've trained you to do, then what bloody use are you? NO BLOODY USE IS THE ANSWER! NO BLOODY USE AT ALL!_" He was still screaming; all he saw was the boy he had under his thumb, and the failure that he perceived. "_I FEED you! I CLOTHE you! I put a damn ROOF over your head! All the TIME I put in – all the bloody EFFORT – to make you the man that you are, AND WHAT GRATITUDE DO I GET?_"

"Sheesh, old boy. Lighten up before your arteries harden."

The length of a thin whip cracked skillfully through the air, nipping Sykes' fist before catching the collar he dropped as a result. Reeling it in like a prize fish, Zidane was quick to leap from his spot, feet balancing on the railing as he tossed the collar down into the arena. "Leon! Catch!"

Before the boy could register what had just happened, Leon's eyes shot open in an instant. His hand was up, catching the collar in mid-air, and in that same motion he had flipped it back around the surprised boy's neck. It clicked into place, and the young Fenrir's eyes dulled once more. He was no longer a threat; the Griever now moved to his next target.

Finding a crack in the wall – more of a head-shaped dent made by an earlier opponent – he used it as leverage. In a second, he leapt clear of the wall, over the railing easily. At once the crowd panicked – fully aware of the danger a berserk Guardian could pose to them – and they dispersed in a hurry, clearing the Guardian his way toward the one figure he was after.

Locking eyes with Bartholomew Sykes, the Griever's sparkled with silver light as he sent him a feral grin.

"… Danny! _Danny!_" The man yelped, trying to back away with little success. "_Danny, for Hyne's sake!_"

Sitting in the center of the blood-soaked arena, collared and meek once more – not even considering the idea of breaking out from the training he had lived with throughout his young life – the boy did not so much as look at his master as the Griever pounced on him. There was a final scream, and then there was silence, for no one was left save the two Guardians, the fallen, the master, and the agent-in-training.

"You sure got a little showy there, Leon." Zidane's whip as returned to his belt, and he only smiled cockily as the calm brunet leveled him with a stern glance. "What? Come on, you don't have to look at me like that. Do I need a reason to help someone?"

* * *

There was a low "clang" as the door came free from its place, swinging aside to give the waiting hands access to its contents. Cloud soon pulled free a stack of papers, a small flashlight coming up to ease his reading of the letters. At last, he found the one he was after.

"The license of Personal Acquisition," he announced to the other, holding it up before him. "We have it."

Then, in a deft movement of fingers, he shredded it into unsalvageable pieces.

"And now no one will."

Holding vigilance over the unconscious, restrained henchmen, Tidus stated quizzically at his superior. "What was that for?"

"The officials of Deep Eyes need their excuse for making the arrest and conducting deeper investigation to unearth everything. We just gave them that excuse," Cloud explained, crushing one of the paper fragments under his shoe. "Illegal possession is not much for a crime, but it will be enough for them to work with.

"Now…" And he glared reproachfully at the trainee before him. "You disobeyed a direct order."

"I know," Tidus answered, keeping his confidence as he met the other's gaze. "Zidane and I agreed on this. To walk early is the same as walking out; we can't do that."

"When you work for Organization XIII, you're expected to follow orders," the agent answered firmly. "You're aware of this, and yet you're willfully jeopardizing your chances. I'm not sure I understand why."

"I'll tell you why: it's because this is how I decide to live. This is how I write my story, and in my story…" Tidus' own brows furrowed as he spoke, "… the hero does not leave his friends behind."

If Cloud had anything to say about that matter, it was interrupted shortly by the arrival of the remaining two in their team with the deliverable. As Zidane set a battery-powered lantern on the table – bringing what little light it provided into their immediate surroundings – Leon tossed the unconscious Sykes to join his lackeys on the ground. He straightened, and it was only now that the others saw the damage his arm brace had sustained from the young Fenrir's earlier assault. Regardless, it did not appear to cause its bearer any further discomfort, and business continued as usual.

Retrieving his handset, Cloud dialed a memorized number and held it to his ear. A moment later… "We're done here, Zexion. Let Deep Eyes in."

The mobile was clapped shut, signaling an end to the mission. Looking the boys over, Cloud at last sighed and nodded his approval. "It's as I said during the briefing: you've done your part right, so you've passed. Next time, though, I expect you to follow instruction. Am I clear?"

The boys saluted, taking their cue to leave quickly before the police arrived to clean up after them; their superiors would follow later.

"… Tidus."

The Leviathan trainee halted, turning as Cloud stepped forward. "Yes, sir?"

"Your story isn't over yet." There was a movement, as a hand searched for something and found it. "So, as long as you're going to keep writing it, you're going to need some luck."

Tidus answered his senses as he raised his hands, catching in them an object that was cool to the touch. Upon further examination, he found himself staring at a small thin blade that ended in a hook.

"It's called Brotherhood," Cloud explained. "It's yours now."

No more words were necessary between them. Nodding his own gratitude to the agent, Tidus took his leave once and for all.

Now the partners were alone with their quarry, waiting for the ones to finish the job to get close enough. With an irritated huff, Cloud made his way to the thinner henchman. Looking him over, he uttered morosely, "I like this suit…"

And then, giving in to himself for the first time that night, he squatted and reached forward…

* * *

It was about half an hour later before Sykes and his remaining henchmen roused, in time to hear the Deep Eyes officers hovering overhead read them their rights. The larger of the henchmen groaned in pain, wanting badly to nurse at the bump he had gained on his head, when he caught sight of his colleague. He was quiet for a moment, and then muttered dumbly,

"Damn, Lefty, _nice_ _dress_."

Still restrained and completely shredded of his dignity, all the latter could do was cuss.

* * *

From the window, Leon watched as the three were marched to a waiting transport. It was the moment that both Deep Eyes and Organization XIII had waited for; the long-awaited mete of justice.

And as of now, it was also the moment that Cloud had been waiting for.

The lantern they took with them now dimly illuminated the mansion's impressive wine room. With their owner gone, they would not be missed by anyone for a long while. Behind him, the Guardian heard a dull "splat", and then looked up as a thoroughly soaked ball of unkempt hair was tossed to hit the wall opposite. A second "splat" echoed before the abused object squelched to the floor. His eyes still on it, Leon waited for the one next to him to seat himself before he dropped the question:

"Feeling better now?"

Dressed in a rumpled suit, the first buttons on the dress shirt left undone, Cloud nursed the bottle of wine in his hands for several counts. Finally, with a loud sigh of contentment, he answered:

"_Ye-e-e-ep…!_"

Bottles clinked in a toast, and both tilted their heads back as they drank, bottoms up.


	10. The Little Boy Blue

_Once again, character auditions are still open! (Check out my profile page for the character sheet template and submission guidelines) Finally, the moment we've all been waiting for: Roxas' mission is finally underway. Nothing but easy sailing...or is it?_

Eury (c) pyjamaTerra

Old Mao & Luuly (c) Thien/ThienCatVu

Aphotic, Axurel and Flypipe _hail from Deviant Hearts, another fan fiction series I was able to create thanks to participation from my friends._

* * *

A soft ringing filled the air – that ridiculously dull robotic clanging that seemed default for all handsets of its generation – and though it was kept at a low volume, it was also persistent in its subtle reminders. At last, with a murmur of apology, the owner reached deep into his coat pocket to retrieve his mobile. Flipping it open, he pressed the right button before holding it up to his ear. "Yes?"

"**Sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's that matter you wished to be informed about, regardless of situation.**"

"Go on."

The conversation went on for a little longer, the young man uttering simple responses as appropriate. At last, he ended the call and put the phone away before returning his attention to his guest.

"Work again, huh?" she guessed.

He nodded, sighing deeply before he spoke: "I'm sorry. And we only just got here-"

"Silly boy," she scolded gently, her voice holding nothing but knowing amusement. "You know I've never held it against you, and I don't plan to start."

"Yes, I do know," he answered softly, reaching for his cup of tea on the table. "It's just that we see so little of each other."

"We're busy people in companies that care for their service quality," she answered. "Work will always be our top priority, no matter how we feel about it."

That was it; no more protests about the matter – only how to go on from there.

"Let me walk you home," he offered, rising with her. She smiled and shook her head.

"It's alright – I still have some things to pick up before I finish packing. You just worry about your task."

Helpless to the situation, the young man at last conceded. He seated himself once more, and she leaned forward to grace his cheek with a parting kiss.

"See you when I get back," she whispered in his ear. And though his face betrayed nothing, his tone carried it all in his soft-spoken answer.

"Be safe, Naminé."

And then she was gone, the chair she had occupied still drawn back in mocking reminder of her previous presence. The waiter looked up, his surprise evident, before he curiously approached the table.

"Was there anything wrong with-?"

"The food is fine, Linguini. Something just came up. My check, please, and we'll take these to go." His remaining companion cleared his throat loudly, and he rolled his eyes before adding: "And inform the sous-chef that my friend would, once again, like his Boeuf à la mode more thoroughly cooked."

"Oui, monsieur."

As the waiter left with their untouched meals, Roxas leveled a weary yet reproachful glance at his companion – the other man continued to pick lazily at his ear with one finger in a blatant show of disregard.

"If Remy and Colette don't hate you by now, they soon will."

"Hey, I'm a paying customer!" Axel retorted, flicking said finger outward callously. "Hyne damn it, it's like a conspiracy to give my gut a slow painful death. What's so hard about well done meat?"

"Firstly, _I_ pay for these meals," the blond responded firmly. "Secondly, your idea of 'well done' is perilously close to charcoal on a plate."

"So sue my Spirit."

Then the waiter returned with the takeout boxes still warm from the kitchen. After leaving his signature and leaving a tip, Roxas stepped from the perimeter of the bistro with one box in hand. The other was to his right, as his partner matched his pace easily.

"… You gonna be okay there?"

"We settled everything in that conference call before dinner," Roxas replied bluntly. "The biotech department will send the paperwork to Zexion first thing in the morning."

There was a snort to his side. "You _know_ that's not what I mean."

"What _do_ you mean, then?"

"You may be a Key Agent, but you're still… what, fourteen? Prodigy or no, that's asking a kid to be the adult he should wait about seven years for."

"Can I help it?" the younger man answered, his tone flat. "I can't afford to be too attached to her, or any other girl, and I've told you why countless times."

"Yeah, yeah, you don't want to hurt her and all that jazz." Axel chuckled morosely before commenting in a semi-serious manner: "If you didn't have me, this organization's gonna curse you to die alone and depressed."

"Assume my overflowing gratitude," the Key Agent retorted coolly. Shifting the box into a better grip, he picked up the pace. "I have to attend to that call. Go spend some time with Demyx or whoever you wish; so long as you give me privacy in the office, I don't care."

"I love you too, pal."

* * *

"Arm out."

As soon as the extended limb was steady, Vexen went about flipping latches with swift precision, one hand under the elbow and poised to catch the contraption. With a final "click", the arm brace Leon had been wearing came undone and dropped into the waiting hand…before it came apart into two pieces with a dull, almost pathetic "crack".

"Pop quiz, Mr. Strife," – the front half was waved in the agent's general direction – "what is this made of?"

Leaning against the wall while standing on one leg, Cloud shrugged before giving his answer: "Mythril alloy."

"_Mythril_ alloy," the medic repeated, this time directing his disapproval at the brunet Guardian. "A rare metal favored for being the toughest lightweight available in its category. And still you manage to break not one, but _five_ of them?"

All Leon supplied in comment was a raised brow, a smug smirk, and an apathetic shrug of the shoulders.

"I understand you don't like wearing it," Vexen continued, setting the broken pieces on a metal tray as he spoke, "but I also understand that your arm is not healing as well as all our theories say it should. While I'll admit most of the motor functions have been restored, that arm's only at about half its usual strength. Your constant carelessness is not helping at all."

"Even at half strength, he's still unchallenged in knocking people, Guardians, rogues and a variety of heavy objects across a good enough distance," Cloud retorted. "Besides, shouldn't the higher-ups be happier that he's easier to manage like this?"

"Still as expensive – not much for a hooray."

At last, Vexen gave up on the lost cause, and finished the last few notes on his writing pad. Leon was directed to turn his extended arm this way and that, giving the physician a full analysis. When Vexen finally deemed the data collection sufficient, he allowed the Guardian to drop his hand back down to his side.

"The good news for you is: there won't be a sixth to break. Your arm's recovered enough to do without, but I advise you to continue taking care with it. It's still stiff now, but from what I understand, your partner has something for that?" – He received an affirmative nod – "Alright, then you're clear to go. Good luck on that mission, and try not to break something important this time. I'll leave you two your privacy."

And then he was gone, once again toward his office with more medical records on his hands. The door slid shut behind him, and Cloud mentally counted the footsteps that grew distant. Finally deeming the area quiet enough, he held up the package in his hand. "You ready for your present?"

"Anything's better than that hunk of metal," Leon replied dryly. Regardless he watched the package curiously as his partner brought it over. "What is it?"

"You'll see," Cloud answered simply. "As a matter of fact, I think you might like it."

No further comment was given until the package was opened, its contents brought to light. Leon stared quietly at the first Cloud held out to him.

"… Aren't these your belts?"

"I had one of them modified. Now it's three smaller ones that should fit around your arm nicely. Let's try it." The Guardian obliged him by extending his hand once more, patiently watching as three straps of leather wound around the forearm, each fixed without cutting off the blood circulation altogether. Checking the buckles once over, Cloud finally stepped back. "How's that feel?"

"… A lot less clunky, a lot less flashy," Leon slowly decided, his expression going from skeptical to interested, "and actually comfortable."

"Then let's complete the look." The package was fully emptied this time, revealing three more belts. The skeptical look returned.

"… Exactly which logic exists that I'd need this much leather?"

"A man can't have too many belts. Come on, up on your feet."

The next few minutes were silent once more, Leon winding one black belt through the loops on his pants as Cloud crisscrossed a second black belt and a brown belt under them. By the time they were done, Leon still looked uncertain as he poked at one of the studs as though it might burst into flames.

With a huff, Cloud reached forward and knocked the hand away. "Relax, you look great."

"I look like I have 'no touching' issues," the latter protested.

"You'll get used to it, now come on – Roxas is waiting."

* * *

In that small, too small gap in time when he had been just an agent, Roxas had the luxury of being out there in the field, doing _real_ work, and now he sorely missed that. He missed the adrenaline rush that came with the constant brushes with death, and he especially missed never having to deal with the responsibilities of cleaning up afterward, pacifying the media and keeping within the authorities' good graces.

His every working hour now was dedicated taking responsibility, no matter what for.

Both corners of Xaldin's desk were hidden by stacks of paper, either seen to or awaiting his review. On the center of the same desk sat a folder, pristine white with black formal lettering emblazoned upon the cover alongside the organization logo, the same folder he had first presented to an agent about half a year ago. No doubt, that man would be impatient to receive it now – he felt the same way. He placed a hand atop the organization logo, his brows unconsciously narrowing.

_It's time to finish what you started so long ago. I can only hope this works…_

His thoughts were interrupted by a persistent beeping. Roxas checked his pager – read the message Demyx had sent his way – and seated himself just as two light knocks echoed from the door. His finger landed on the button at once.

"Enter."

Cloud came in first, Leon but a step behind. At the younger man's gesture, the pair seated themselves before him, with the agent quick to break the silence: "Well?"

"As I mentioned in the phone call, your certificate reached me last night. That means you're officially cleared for the mission I will give you now." Talk was halted as Roxas slowly pushed the folder toward the pair; it stopped short near the opposite end of the desk. "Last chance to back out. Once you open that folder, you'll have to go through everything as I instruct you."

Already, Cloud's hand was on the folder, drawing it closer still toward him. On his face was not a shred of uncertainty – only determination. "We've been thinking it over for _months_. If we're not ready now, we never will be."

In silent agreement, Leon's hand reached out and opened the folder. Their decision was made.

"Then let the briefing begin. Take a look at the photograph."

A small square was retrieved from a pocket, and Cloud frowned at the black and white image of a young boy with spiky hair and huge eyes. "… Who is this?"

"Your target: Sora, age fourteen, brown hair, blue eyes. This photograph you have is outdated, but the only one we have been able to acquire," Roxas explained. "His last residence to our knowledge is Kramer Orphanage, before he was adopted and taken elsewhere. Go to the orphanage, find out where he went, and get there as quickly as possible."

"So what are we supposed to do with him?" Cloud interjected quietly. "Protect him? Kidnap him? … Kill him?"

"You're going to recruit him. As an agent." With a gesture that called for silence, he continued the briefing. "No, it's actually a little more complicated than that – even as you escort him to base, you may have to begin training him in the very basics of survival. The important thing is to keep him alive, make sure he gets here in one piece."

"And there's _still_ more to this."

"There is," Roxas confirmed. "Once you find him and recruit him, you'll have to make your way back under anonymity. His existence – the purpose of this mission – must remain as undisclosed as possible. You will take the quickest possible route to him, and then you will bring him back without alerting the rest of Organization XIII to his presence at all."

"Just what is so special about him that we need to tiptoe about this, Roxas?"

"That, agent, is my business and mine alone." The subject was dropped with that sentence, and they moved on. "In that folder are some documents I prepared ahead of time for you: the first is a warrant that will grant you access to the necessary information from the orphanage. The second is a letter to the Grand Admiral of the Atlantica Sea Port – you will be ensured free passage on board one of his vessels toward the boy's location. The third is a mercenary pass – even under the guise of civilian, it gives you better chances in recruitment houses."

"Mighty generous of you," Cloud commented.

"It's also the most I can do for you. Your way there will be officially recognized as a scouting mission, following an ambiguous lead of rogues in the area. Once you pick up the target, you're on your own. You need to avoid revealing yourselves as much as possible, which consequently denies you any privileges you'd naturally acquire otherwise."

"Swell." The folder fell shut once more, the agent pulling it off the table completely. "When do we leave?"

"Your ride to Kramer Orphanage is outside and waiting for whenever you're ready…" – Both men got up at once – "… Which, may I assume, is right now?"

* * *

A short journey by jeep later, Cloud got his first true glimpse of Kramer Orphanage. It seemed something right out of a Greek tragedy, once-white stone pillars lining the entrance like faithful sentries guarding their residents. Despite obvious effort in housekeeping, the building was equally obvious in its age by the signs of wear and tear that were about. Even from a distance, it looked like an oasis in the desert – the image of hope.

"Feeling nostalgic?" he could not help but ask his partner, the other man coming up from behind him. "Coming back here after all these years, I mean."

Leon gave no answer, only staring in solemn silence at this place that had been a part of his more distant memories. He took a step forward, leading the rest of the trek toward the orphanage. As they approached, they paused again at the brunet's direction. That was when Cloud saw what his partner saw:

A field of white, yellow and green that went on as far as the eye could see. It hardly seemed the work of one person alone, and yet it was too out of place amidst the rougher lands to have grown there naturally. As Cloud's eyes took it all in, Leon came down on one knee, his hand reaching to touch a white flower that was just closest to him.

_It's so beautiful,_ he mused._ Whoever put so much effort in here truly loved this place._

Then both sensed that they were no longer alone. They turned their attention to the closest pillar just a small distance from them. Eyes narrowed in wariness were quick to widen in surprise as a small figure poked his head out from behind said pillar. Brown eyes sparkling with curiosity blinked back at them, and before either could so much as think of an appropriate response, the little boy had left his hiding spot. They remained where they stood, waiting. Neither knew his intention, and neither wanted to accidentally frighten him off.

The child stood before Leon, who was still down on his knee. The man was openly puzzled as the boy hummed loudly as he studied the face before him. Finally, the boy grinned and nodded his approval. As Leon found a small hand patting him smartly on his head as though he were a new puppy, he looked utterly debased.

"Eury! Eury, are you still out there?" A woman's voice was calling, muffled by the door but getting closer. "Come along, now, it's getting late-!"

Then the door opened, revealing a tall figure with long black hair. She was middle-aged, with a motherly air about her, and as she looked at them now, her dark green eyes softened at the sight of Leon. He was looking back, his own eyes losing their usual brittle quality. He got to his feet – the child now wrapped around his right leg – and allowed her to get closer. She reached up, but paused uncertainly before settling with placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome home, Squall."

At his troubled gaze, she merely smiled in reassurance. Watching them, Cloud could only wonder how many times she had been through this with her charges…or if any had ever come back like this at all. He finally interrupted by clearing his throat.

"Matron?" he queried, holding out his hand as he introduced himself, "I'm Agent Cloud Strife."

She took that hand, shaking it warmly. "Edea Kramer. I understand we have much to discuss."

* * *

The environment within was a great deal warmer and cheery. Every room was bustling with activity, as the orphanage's residents ran about in noisy ruckus. Their ages varied, as did their openness: the youngest toddlers waved and pointed at Cloud while babbling a mile a minute. The young children stared at him – especially his attire and head of spiky hair – in open curiosity. The oldest of them, still in their early teens, watched him pass them by warily. And yet, their routines went uninterrupted, as though all were accustomed to strangers showing up in the house.

"Aphotic," Edea called to one of the older boys. "Dinner's starting soon, honey. Is anyone missing?"

"Uh…" There was a muffled crash in the distance, and the youngster brightened at once as he declared, "Not anymore!"

"Just round everyone up to eat in ten minutes." With an amused wave of her hand, she bid him on his way before turning to a pair of teens. "Flypipe, could you help Axurel in the kitchen today? I need to talk with our guest."

With an echoed "Yes, Matron", the pair of boy and girl moved along as well. Catching a dirty glare from the boy on his way out, Cloud snorted.

"I have the feeling these guys don't like me."

"Please don't take it personally, dear. They're all good children – some of them are just afraid."

"What of?" Cloud could not help but ask. He had followed her lead into an empty room, where they shut the door behind them.

"Even though the law was passed, a few of the older ones still remember when your organization would take orphans away to become Guardians. They fear that is what you came for."

"I would never do that," the agent stated firmly. "I would never let that happen again."

"I know, dear, and so will they. Just give them time."

Hearing a commotion from outside the walls, Cloud spied a glance through the window. He smirked as he watched the little one – Eury – cling to Leon's shoulders, loudly urging him into a game of some sort. The usually imposing Guardian seemed out of place amidst the much smaller children that were practically climbing all over him, his expression both tired and bemused as he struggled to cater to all of them. "Looks like he's not having the same problem."

"Squall used to live here, after all – they remember him from his pictures. Now, about the purpose of your visit…"

It was on to business at last. Cloud turned away from the window as he explained the situation. "We're looking for a boy called Sora. He has brown hair – spiky, kind of like mine – and blue eyes. He'll be about fourteen now."

Edea thought for a moment, and then she gave her answer: "We had a child here who matches that description. He was adopted by a couple from Destiny Islands some years back. Give me a moment to find the address."

Humming in acknowledgment, Cloud turned to better take in the room around him. If one overlooked the shelf of files – most likely the children's records – it was still the layout of a child's bedroom, though kept tidy as though it had been unused for years. Spotting a picture frame on the short dresser, he picked it up and studied the photograph.

"… Was this Leon's room?" he suddenly asked. Behind him, Edea looked up from her search, and he held up the picture for her to see. Sure enough, there in black and white was the image of a small thin boy with unkempt hair, reclining limply against a sturdy chest as strong arms carried him easily. Despite the time between, the resemblance to Leon was impeccable.

Her pause was all Cloud needed to confirm the truth. Returning his gaze back upon the image of the past, he asked his next question: "Who's that with him there?"

"That's the man who came for him," she answered. "I couldn't get his face since he worked with the organization, but the important thing was having something to remember the child by."

At last the agent set the picture down once more, his eyes traveling beyond it to the remaining items on the dresser. There was a cardboard box with a mottled rock in it, and under it was an electronic keyboard covered by a cloth. Then he turned from the dresser, and looked instead at the bed just across from it. There were some wrinkles in the blanket that indicated someone had sat on it, but it was otherwise undisturbed. It was an image preserved from the past that he reckoned a parent would walk into when their child had grown up and left their side.

_Even as he was taken from you… Even as you knew he would come to forget you and this place… You kept everything for him. You really loved him, didn't you?_

"Here it is."

Cloud's hand automatically came up to take the paper that was handed to him. It was a small square torn from a notepad, with an address scribbled on it in black ink. Looking it over once, he folded the paper and stashed it in the pocket of his coat.

"Would you or the kids mind if we stayed a little longer?" he asked carefully. He was stepping into dangerous ground, but he had to hazard it. If his hunch was right…

There was that expected pause, Edea staring at him as though seeing him for the first time. When she recovered, her expression was one of gratitude, and her smile warmed his heart.

"Not at all."

* * *

Although he had to admit his like for the kids and their acceptance of him for who he was, Leon still held fast to the fact that the little savages had well and truly worn him out. He was grateful to hear one of the older boys call them for dinner – "_Get in here and eat or I'll eat it myself!_" – The whole pile of children was quick to jump off him and hurry inside at that point.

Following the stampede inside, the oldest girl informed him that Cloud managed to get them both invited to stay for dinner. After expressing his understanding – and sidestepping a few of the youngsters begging to sit next to him at the table – he made his way through the house toward a specific location. He soon found it, closing the door behind him to give him some privacy.

As clouded as his memories had become over time, the room seemed a great deal smaller than he pictured it to be. Running his hand over an old blanket folded neatly over a child's bed, he at last sat himself upon it, carefully turning until he was relatively comfortable. Spying the dresser, he picked up the picture frame and studied at the photograph there. The face of his younger self looked back without giving him any clues. Any hope that he could recall his past here seemed dimmer than before.

Replacing the picture, he moved on to the cardboard box. Fishing out the rock, he gave it a quizzical once-over before putting that down as well. Finally, he was down to the keyboard. Setting the cloth aside, he blankly regarded keys that were suddenly a little intimidating to him. His hand reached forward, awkwardly, in a clumsy act of trust toward his body to remember what his mind could not.

His finger hit a key; it sounded… right. His hand automatically shifted, another finger hitting another key without his knowing why. For a moment, his hand seemed to know what it was doing; he let it, listening to a string of notes that he could not fully understand. They seemed so hazy to him now, and in the end, all he had were four notes, which he played over and over again slowly.

There was a soft knocking at the door, and he paused his playing. As he looked up, the door opened, revealing another of the older boys. The boy looked elsewhere, embarrassed at his own intrusion, before he spoke in a reluctant murmur:

"Matron wanted me to fetch you… For dinner."

Knowing the other would not give a verbal answer, the boy looked at him as he waited instead for a visual one. Leon nodded his understanding, and set the keyboard back on the dresser, once more covering it with the cloth. As he moved to replace the box, the rock tumbled from it and rolled onto the bed next to him. He picked it up and found himself studying its interesting mottle a second time.

"… That's Zeke," the boy explained, at last entering the room as he continued: "You probably don't remember, but… He was yours. You asked me to watch him for you."

It was regretful, but Leon realized that, indeed, he did not remember at all. Once, a long time ago, this rock had meant something to him, something so important that he had kept it here, and even entrusted it into another's care. Now, whatever reason he had was gone, withered away by the Spirit in his mind, and then removed completely by the organization he served.

"You'll have to go away again, don't you?" the boy was asking. "Do you want him back?"

Leon looked at the boy that was now standing before him, watching him with a quiet sadness. Once, too, he must have known him well, but now that memory was gone. Just the knowledge that he had forgotten something he treasured so much left a bad taste in his mouth, and what made it worse was that someday, without his even realizing it, he would forget ever experiencing this feeling.

Turning the boy's hand palm up, he placed the rock there, closing the fingers over it gently in a fist. The boy looked from the rock to him, trying to understand the message the older orphan was trying to send his way. With a soft sigh, Leon smiled in reassurance before reaching up and ruffling a head of unkempt dark hair – as it was with the keyboard, it felt right to do so.

The boy blinked in blatant confusion, and at last returned the smile with a grin. Raking his free hand through his hair in a vain attempt to straighten the mess, he replaced the rock in its box before jabbing back at the door with his thumb.

"We'd better go before the others take our share, and I think Eury won the 'debate' over who gets to sit next to you."

Chuckling, Leon rose to his feet and followed the boy back into the hallway, listening with interest as the younger related to him all that happened in his absence. Although he remembered so little of that distant past – even as he knew he would one day lose the memories of this present time – he also knew that as long as he could experience it, he was going to make it last.

He owed himself and everyone who once knew him as Squall that much.

* * *

"For a pack of punks, they sure know a thing or two about smoking their fish," Cloud commented jovially – a full belly of warm food would do that to a person. "I won't be forgetting Edea's cooking either any time soon."

In the passenger seat, Leon merely grunted as he stared out the window at the scenery. With their business done in the Kramer Orphanage, the partners could only stay so long before they had to continue their mission. On the brighter side of things, the older boys had warmed up to the agent over their shared meal, and by the time they needed to leave they had to pry small children off their legs. It had to have been an hour on the road since, with their next destination not too far off.

"We'll go back," Cloud assured the other. "Once this is over and done with, we'll go see them again."

Despite the knowledge that their mission would take a long time to be truly done with, it was a good thought all the same. Leon nodded in an expression of understanding, and his mood lightened a little. Something caught his eye, and he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

It was a few minutes more before the jeep turned through the gates of Atlantica Sea Port, home of the world's largest fleet of commercial vessels, all overseen by Grand Admiral Triton. The vehicle was parked – left for the organization staff to pick up at a later time – and the pair trod down the pathway of wooden planks. The fishermen tending their nets ignored them as they worked, and a few gulls flew overhead in hopeful expectation of handouts.

Outside the local bar, Cloud spotted an old man sitting on a bench with a filthy mug at his side. He flipped a coin into the mug and called to him: "Which way's the Grand Admiral's office?"

"Bless you, sir. Take a right from here, then straight down. Look out for Pier 42," the old man answered. Then, out of nowhere, "There's a piano in this place. Grand piano. She won't mind if you touch it."

Taken by surprise, Leon looked from the old man to the bar's entrance, not sure which course of action would be appropriate. As though sensing his situation, the old man only laughed merrily.

"Live a couple decades out here, and you've seen enough to know. You like pianos, don't you kid?"

Still unsure, Leon again turned to the door, and looked through the foggy glass into the interior of the empty bar. Not a person was in sight, and it was only through squinting that he managed to make out the silhouette of a piano in the dim lighting.

Coming to a decision, Cloud stepped forward and headed down the way he had pointed earlier. "Save me a seat in there. I could use a pint before we leave."

As he turned right, he heard the chime of a bell behind him. He kept going, slowly counting off the numbers until he found the one he was after.

"The answer to life, the universe and everything fishy," he read off the graffiti someone had liberally etched under the sign. Smirking, he passed it by and walked down the pier to where the office was. Finding the lack of a door, he instead took half a step in, instantly greeted by the muffled sounds of conflict from within. "… Knock-knock."

"_Who is it_?" a voice boomed back, so loud and deep it could replace a foghorn. The muffled sounds of earlier had halted in its wake.

"Grand Admiral, I'm an agent from Organization XIII."

At once, the door to the inner room opened with a crash, and the Grand Admiral strode out in a huff. He was an imposing giant of a man, with the built of a gladiator and the regal air of a king. His long white beard was the only true sign of his age, and even that seemed well-groomed out of respect to his stature. Now, he stared down at Cloud before clearing his throat loudly, his question was straight to the point: "Well, what do you want?"

In answer, Cloud presented the letter Roxas had handed to him. The Grand Admiral snatched it up with a gruff mutter, his eyes flicking left and right as he read it over word for word. The agent could only wait until the man was done, not just with the reading but with the protocol of checking it twice. Finally, satisfied that it was not only in order but authentic, Grand Admiral Triton folded the letter in half with an audible "snap".

"Where is it you need to go?"

"Destiny Islands."

"The _Steamboat Willy_ can take you there. Captain Pete will depart in half an hour from Pier 39 – tell him I sent you."

"Thanks. I'll let you get back to arguing with your daughter over who she gets to date now. Sorry for interrupting."

Tapping two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, Cloud swiftly ducked back out of the office and retreated off the pier with a second crash echoing in his wake. Half an hour – that meant he would have to get Leon and go as soon as possible. Anyone could wait for the boat, but the boat could not wait for anyone.

When he returned to the bar, the old man was gone. From within was, indeed, the sound of a piano. As he listened, though, he realized it was someone else – Leon wasn't that good. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the darker interior, carefully negotiating his way around the unoccupied furniture.

The brightest light he found was focused on the piano. The pianist was a young woman, too caught up in the strangely soothing melody to notice his presence at first. It was only when he got closer that she looked up in surprise, the piece ending in a jerky halt.

"Sorry, lady. I lost my cat in here," he spoke amiably, though he maintained a blank expression. "Brown hair, silver eyes, with a scar across his face. Have you seen him?"

Understanding him, the pianist relaxed and gave her answer: "Check down there."

Puzzled, Cloud got even closer still and looked down, his poker face never changing as he at last spotted a pair of legs stretched full-length across the carpeted floor. Squatting, he found his partner in the last place he had expected, and voiced so right away:

"Why are you under the piano, and do I really want to know?"

Opening one eye, Leon regarded his partner with a lazy smile. Disentangling himself from his comfortable position, the brunet finally slid out from his previous napping spot and got to his feet. The question was left unanswered – Cloud gave up and made a detour to the counter. Drawing himself a pint of beer, he finished it just as quickly before dropping a small pile of coins on the table. "Let's go, Leon. The boat's at Pier 39."

Still by the piano, Leon shook the pianist's hand and nodded his thanks. In a moment, the partners left the bar and headed straight down to where the pier – and the _Steamboat Willy_ – was just directly before them. A few seconds after, the door to the bar pushed open a second time. The pianist stepped out into the port, watching them as they spoke to the vessel's captain.

"What do you make of that lad, Luuly?"

"Old Mao," she identified the old man as he returned to the bench, his own wizened eyes also trained on the pair in the distance. "He is… intriguing, I suppose."

"Is that all?"

"… I saw his eyes earlier," she confessed quietly. "There was something there in them. Something… different. I just couldn't place it."

"Considering where he comes from, he's not your average Joe."

"Hardly!" she replied with a laugh. "What grown man falls asleep under a piano like that anymore?"

The old man chuckled. "He did that, did he?"

"Yes he did," she answered, smiling after the departing ship. "He's one of a kind, isn't he?"

"He's the last of his kind, Luuly," the old man whispered. The previous humor had left his eyes, and they twinkled eerily as he continued to watch. "… The very, very last…"

"What…? You saw something, didn't you?" Her attention left the boat, instead focused on her companion. "You had a vision of that man's future."

"I only saw what I had to see," the old seer answered softly. "It is better if you do not know."

"And why not?"

"This is something no one can stop. Not even him." Then, as though that topic had never existed prior, he went on, "You couldn't spare an old man a warm meal, could you? It's been a long day, and I'm starving."

"… Some days, I just don't know _what_ to do with you…!" Regardless, the pianist gave up and went back into the bar. With a tired murmur to himself, the old man settled down on the bench once more, his hand playing with the coin Cloud had tossed him earlier. As the _Steamboat Willy_ pulled out of Atlantica Sea Port, he stared solemnly after the brunet Guardian looking out over the stern.

"… You can't outrun the world, kid…" he muttered, no longer speaking for an audience. "Your fate is such a dark one."

The coin in his hand rolled off his thumb and hit the wooden planks, rolling down the pier.

"The problem with being the last of anything… is that by and by…"

Halfway through its journey, the coin rolled off the plank and hit the water with a dull "plop".

"… There will be none left at all."

With a last twinkle of reflected light, the coin disappeared altogether, swallowed by the shadowy depths of the sea.

* * *

Cloud found Leon still by the boat's stern, watching over the vast spread of water. When he approached, the other man's only sign of acknowledgement was to take a step to the left and give him room. Looking down, he noticed the gloved hand was still tapping finger after finger, miming the playing of a piano. "So… who was your friend?"

Leon shrugged. The tapping stopped. "Don't know. I didn't give her my name, she didn't give me hers."

"And again, why were you sleeping under the piano?"

There was an uncertain pause, as the brunet took a sudden interest in his fingers, as though they would give an answer in his stead. They didn't.

"… I… I'm not sure."

Overhead, the whistle blew shrilly once, twice, then three times. Both men looked up, and Leon at last turned away from the stern.

"We're reaching the Main Island. What does the address Matron gave you say?"

Remembering the scrap of paper, Cloud reached into his pocket and drew it out, looking it over again. "… He lives on the Main Island, but we'd better ask around for his exact location. Captain Pete mentioned the kids around here like exploring the Small Island whenever they can, and I don't want to grab a canoe unless I know for sure."

"That sounds fair."

As the _Steamboat Willy_ docked, the partners disembarked and went in ahead to the large town. It took a bit of asking around, before they finally found a clue from a student.

"Sora? When I saw him earlier, he was headed home. His house is over that way."

"Thanks."

At last, they reached the house. Cloud pressed the doorbell once, and a set of footsteps approached. In a moment, a woman answered the door.

"Yes?"

"We're looking for Sora. Is he here?"

The woman looked them both over, and her stance was wary. Cloud could guess why – kids didn't usually have two strange men showing out of nowhere and looking for them… unless there was trouble of some sort.

"What is it you want with my son?"

"We just want to talk to him," Cloud attempted in explanation, hoping against all hopes that he did not screw this up. "To you as well, actually. He's been offered a job with our company."

"And what company is that?"

The agent breathed deeply. It was time to push the big red button and hope it didn't explode. "… Organization XIII."

When she was silent, both feared the worst. Then, to their surprise, she sighed and opened the door fully.

"I was expecting you sooner or later. Come in."

Cloud barely stopped himself from revealing his relief, and then turned to his partner. "Wait here – we'll be right out."

At a nod from Leon, the agent entered the home, and the woman shut the door behind them once more, then stepped pass him and lead the way toward the living room as she explained: "When my husband and I first adopted Sora, he had very few personal belongings to bring with him. Of those things, one of them was for us: a letter left by his biological father. That letter explained everything as best as it could, but we still had trouble grasping the… situation wholly. He told us that you would come for him someday, to help him.

"Tell me: what's happening to my son?"

"He'll become an agent," Cloud explained. "Just like I did."

"… I'll talk with him, but in the end, this is his decision to make. I hope you'll respect that."

"We will, ma'am. And thank you."

The woman – Sora's mother – hardly seemed assured by that, but she held her peace. As they passed the dining table, Cloud spotted something sitting on top of the cabinet. He got closer, frowning as he tried to get a closer look at what exactly it was he saw… and then he startled as he did see at last, and in a flash his hand swiped the frame up.

"_This is…!_"

"That's Sora's," the mother informed from behind him. "The Matron took the photograph when he first came to the orphanage as an infant, and Sora wanted to put it here – he said something about wanting his whole family in the same place."

Somewhere above their heads, another door could be heard opening. "Mom? Who's out there?"

"You have visitors, dear. Come down, we need to talk."

In a noisy clamor of a typical teenager descending a staircase, the boy – the target – appeared before him. A boy about fourteen, with a head of brown spiky hair and a pair of bright blue eyes the color of the sky. That boy looked at him now, and then down at the picture he was still holding.

"… What are you doing with my Dad?"

* * *

When the door opened again, Leon turned to see his partner storm out in a foul mood, his hand squeezing something so hard it looked it might shatter. Behind him, no boy followed.

"… Did he say 'no'?"

"Not yet," Cloud uttered darkly. "His mother wanted a little time to talk with him first before our sales pitch. There's a pretty big chance he will come with us, too."

Humming in acknowledgment, Leon raised a brow as he continued observing the other's bad temper. "So… what's the problem?"

"_This_." – Before he could blink, the brunet found the picture shoved into his hands – "This photograph was taken when the kid was still a baby. Look who's holding him."

Not understanding the other's point, Leon obliged nonetheless. He, too, startled at what he saw. "… Isn't this…?"

"Not quite, considering the time and place, but there's definitely something off here. This was _not_ anywhere in the briefing," Cloud growled furiously, glaring down at the young man in the photograph with burning intensity. "When we get close enough to make a phone call back to HQ, I swear I'll tear that little blond rat in half if he doesn't tell us _what the hell is going on_."


	11. Journey Starts

_Long time no see, everyone. Thanks for coming on back to join me for another chapter. I still can't believe how many times I had to start over different parts, and times where I just kept writing myself into corners. Cloud's "sales pitch" was decidedly the toughest to go through, especially considering the truth in Sora's questions._

_Regardless, I'm very grateful to finally finish one more for the road, and am even more ecstatic to know that _Gunmetal_, as of now, hits the top of my Stat list for everything except C2. I owe it to everyone who stopped by and let me know what they thought of the story._

_Thank you all. Please enjoy._

_EDIT: forgot to add the usual - Character Auditions are (you guessed it) still on. I can't run out of space - so many worlds to fill...  
_

* * *

There was something his gym teacher had started to say on a regular basis to classes now: "If things ache or are just weird with you and you can't seem to figure out why, blame puberty, not me."

Somehow, Sora was certain puberty was equally as confused as he was about the things he was going through at the moment. It had come to the point where his teacher just gave up trying to stop or fix it, settled with pretending nothing was out of the ordinary and ringing the janitor back in for another session of scaling his ladder.

"Some days it's nice to be a kid, ain't it?" Wakka commented offhandedly. "You can bring the ceiling down as many times as you want, and the school can't make you pay for it."

"No, but it gets hard to sound sincere when it's your seventh letter of apology in a week," Sora muttered back, ducking as the janitor sent him another dirty look before stepping out one more time. As routine would have it, the final bell chose to ring right then.

"…and the thought of the day, 'Sky's the limit, but falling all the way back down hurts a lot more than you want to think and you'll ever think.' So in other words, either don't dream, or buy insurance for everything; whichever's cheaper. Class dismissed." But as the class gratefully ran for the door, the teacher quickly added, "Sora, I want a word with you."

Obediently, Sora backtracked to the teacher's desk and pulled up Selphie's chair from the front row of desks. "Yes, sir. Again, I'm sorry."

"Does your mother know about this…" there was a pause, as the teacher's hand turned in small circles in the ceiling's general direction, "… daily activity?"

"Well…"

"I'll answer that for you: she doesn't." The following silence confirmed the verdict for the both of them. With an irritable grunt, the teacher shifted in his seat and continued, "Well, talk to her, let her know what is going on. Maybe she might know something about this."

"… But sir, she can't know _anything_ about this!" Sora protested at once. "I mean, _look_! I'm popping holes in the ceiling!"

"Yes, and it's becoming expensive and very annoying. Just get out of here, and _talk to your mother_."

"But sir, can't I just-"

"_GO_."

In two seconds flat, the boy was out of the class and back in the safety of the school's crowded hallway and amongst empathetic friends.

"Wow, Dr. Becker gets cranky when he doesn't get his coffee on time after school lets out. So…what did he want?"

"The usual," Sora answered flatly. "Go home, talk to Mom, see if she can cook up a miracle and stop me from lifting off."

"He _may_ have a point," Wakka brought up innocently. "I mean… maybe this is something that runs in the family, y'know?"

"I know, and not in this family, it can't." Deciding that he had moped enough for one day, Sora stretched and shrugged his satchel into a better position on his shoulder. "I'm out of here."

"Aren't you coming down to the Small Island with us?"

"Can't. Somehow this ceiling smashing takes it right out of me."

"Well, you _are_ more mellow than usual," the remark elicited a laugh from the one in mention.

"Tell the others I went home, okay? I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"See ya, man."

Wakka went on to the dock alone. Reaching there, he found the last canoe sitting there, and – as he dreaded it – it was also the heaviest one. Muttering a mile a minute about lousy friends running out on him, Wakka tossed his ball in all the same and started the slow process of shoving it toward the waters. What he wasn't expecting was a strong pair of hands gripping the other side of the small boat, speedily sending it gliding down the beach and into the shallows.

Recovering quickly, Wakka hopped back a step to take a better look at the unexpected helper. He was a tall man – brunet – with a strange scar on his face and an even stranger gleam to his eyes, which the boy wrote off as the setting sun's fault. Quick to recover, he dusted his hands off. "Thanks! You visiting, or moving in?"

The man gave no reply, instead reaching for the canoe's paddles still laid out on the sand. As those were passed, another man came up. This one was blond, with spiky hair he easily related to.

"Hi. We're looking for someone on this island. Do you know anyone by the name of Sora?"

Living on a peaceful place like Destiny Islands, children grew up without concern for the darker side of people. They grew up trusting in the adults that taught them and protected them. They never saw a need to question the motives of a grownup – even a stranger – asking about a resident. Wakka did not see this need now.

"Sora? When I saw him earlier, he was headed home," he answered readily, his finger already out and pointing back toward the town. "His house is over that way."

"Thanks."

As they left, Wakka dropped one of the paddles into the canoe, and hopped in with the other in hand. He did not look back at the strangers, instead paddling on his way toward the Small Island, continuing what was, to him, just another ordinary day.

* * *

Sora did not know how long he had been asleep, but he knew his sleep was dreamless, just as it had been each time he came home exhausted from – what his teacher had so aptly dubbed – his "daily activity". Opening his eyes, he was grateful to see that the ceiling above his head was not damaged in any way. A glance at the clock on his stand…

… He hadn't slept for more than an hour- no _wonder_ he was still tired.

That was when he heard the muffled commotion downstairs; his mother was talking with someone. Looking out his window, he spotted a head of dark bronze. The head moved – sensing they were being watched – and he ducked quickly out of sight. Tugging his shoes back on, he pushed off his bed and crossed his room. Pushing open the door, he called: "Mom? Who's out there?"

"You have visitors, dear," his mother called back. "Come down, we need to talk."

Obliging, Sora descended the short flight of stairs. At the bottom, he caught his first glimpse of a man who could be mistaken for a relative, what with his head of spikes and the same blue eyes that were staring so deep into him, it was a little unnerving. Sora only held eye contact for a moment before he had to look away. That was when he caught sight of what the stranger held in his hand.

"… What are you doing with my Dad?" he demanded, the earlier curiosity replaced by wariness. He took half a step forward before his mother's voice stopped him.

"Sora," she started; the boy could hear her uncertainty… "This is an agent from Organization XIII."

The man – agent – nodded awkwardly in greeting, and turned to make his retreat.

"Hey, wait." – Sora had crossed the room in an instant, his hand out and waiting – "Give Dad back."

The agent blinked, suddenly remembering what he was holding, before he gave his answer tersely. "I'll give it back later."

"That's not an 'it'. That's my father."

The agent was getting impatient, seeming angrier with each minute – more desperate to leave before he did something he would regret. At last, he seemed to reach a compromise with himself, and dug into his pocket. In a second, something heavy, metallic and warm with body heat was pressed into the open hand. When Sora drew it back, he found himself admiring a dark silver wolf's head streaked in black.

"I'll come back for that," the agent explained softly. "So… you can trade that for your… father later."

Sora continued studying the heavy badge in his hand, turning it to catch the ceiling light off it several times. Finally, he commented:

"Your friend's a Fenrir, huh?" At a second confused blink, he explained. "We've got something like a safe house here, and sometimes there's news about you on the TV. There aren't a lot of Guardians here, but the ones that are about never go anywhere without their tags.

"So your friend outside…is this his?"

There was a moment's silence before the agent finally nodded in confirmation. It was all Sora needed before he let his hand fall to his side, the wolf's head still firm in his grasp.

"See you later, then."

"… Yeah…" and just like that, the agent swung the door open and stepped out, leaving it to swing shut behind him once more.

Curiosity came back to Sora in that moment and he raised the badge to look at it more carefully. Then his mother's hand was on his shoulder, and when he gave her his attention, she directed him to the dining table. As they sat down, Sora placed the badge on the table in front of him.

"… What is it you wanted to talk about?"

* * *

"… This was _not_ anywhere in the briefing," Cloud growled furiously, glaring down at the young man in the photograph with burning intensity. "When we get close enough to make a phone call back to HQ, I swear I'll tear that little blond rat in half if he doesn't tell us _what the hell is going on_."

"Cloud, you need to calm down."

"Don't tell me to- don't you _get it_?" Cloud snapped. "He screwed us over! Played us – played _me_ – like a damned _harp_! For all we know, he just got us involved in something so sticky, we'll _never_ hear the end of it if word gets back home! Who gets the blame? _Not him_!"

"Cloud-" Leon attempted to interject once more, and again failed.

"I have _half_ the mind to just call it all off. He wants this done, he can do it himself for all I… care…" as he drifted off, he noted that Leon had clammed up completely, his lips set in a very thin line. He did not have to turn around to know, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose as he relayed what he knew: "… We just… drew a crowd in, didn't we?"

He did not have to see Leon's nod to know it happened, either. With a sigh of defeat, he at last regarded the curious residents of the Main Island. Raising a brow at them, he held out his hands. "… Excuse me, do you mind…?"

Like brats caught sneaking at the cookie jar, the people left hurriedly with the decency to at least look embarrassed. Suddenly feeling weary, Cloud found the wall of Sora's house and slumped against it.

"Damn all of it, I just want to wake up somewhere with a hangover, no clothes on, someone equally naked between my legs, and the decision that all this was just a really, really bad dream…"

"… …"

"… Wonderful: who _else_ is listening?" And, lifting his head to seek the answer for himself, Cloud found what he had dreaded in a small group of wide-eyed children. "Come on, leave me alone. Get out of here… Shoo… Scat. Beat it."

At long last, even that group dispersed as well. Cloud figured with the way his luck went, some of the parents would be rather dismayed with the questions their innocent little ones would soon ask.

"We shouldn't stay here," Leon helpfully informed, signaling they were truly alone this time. "The longer we hang around, the more attention we get."

"Duly noted," the agent muttered back. His first instinct was to reach for the doorbell once more, but he stopped himself inches from the button, instead settling with knocking. The door opened, and again it was Sora's mother who greeted them.

"Agent…?"

"Sorry, but it's getting late," Cloud explained. "Could you let your kid know I'll give him his… you know… back tomorrow? We'll talk with him about our business then as well."

There was a slow nod this time. "He'll understand. He won't like it, but he'll understand."

"We also need to find some place to pass the night. He mentioned a safe house earlier…?"

* * *

Sora was still sitting by the dining table when his mother got up to answer the door, but the badge had returned to his hand, settled in the center of a tight, white-knuckle grip. It turned out his teacher was right about his mother knowing something… and he did not like it at all.

"The agent is spending the night at the safe house," she informed him as she came back. "He will be by again tomorrow."

"He's still got Dad, hasn't he?" Even as his mother nodded, Sora accepted it; it was not the picture he had so many questions for, but the real person from that fateful day. The man he could only assume was indeed his father, who left him behind so very long ago.

"Why do you think he did it, Mom?" At her confused expression, he explained further. "Why did Dad give me away? It can't be because of wha-_who_ I am… can it?"

"Sora-"

"You saw that guy's face, Mom! He _knew_ Dad, or at least recognized him! What if… what if this organization did something?"

_What if Organization XIII was what forced father and son to part…_ A question neither dared to say aloud, lest it actually become a cold, painful truth. Sora suddenly remained something he was squeezing so tight it started to hurt, and then he was looking once more at the old, grizzled wolf that stared back at him with its lifeless black orbs.

"Maybe that is it…" the boy murmured dejectedly. "Maybe he didn't want me because he knew… I'd grow up to betray him…"

A hand was on his shoulder, and a pair of sad eyes watching over him.

"Honey, come here."

Sora did not protest the hug she drew him into, nor did he complain when her hand was in his messy hair. Just for a little while, he did not care if he was being babied. At least, when things got too confusing or tiring to bear, babies got to cry.

* * *

"Well, here we are."

The safe house looked more like a small post office than housing of any sort. It did not help that right out front was the organization's logo above a dangling toy moogle that chirped _"Have a nice day, kupo!"_ every time someone passed it by. Leon stared up at it for a long thoughtful moment, and then in a blink his hand had come out and swatted it hard enough to send it spinning. Cloud allowed himself a smirk before he slid the door open and stepped inside.

"Za…?" At the sudden cry, the agent turned quickly and found the source by the counter. It was a young Guardian, fresh out of training, and seemed entirely out of place for his area; "lightning" did not go well with water at all. The boy recovered himself quickly and approached. "Sorry, I thought you were someone else for a minute there. My name's Kytes."

Cloud took the offered hand and shook. "I'm Agent Strife, and this is my partner Leon. What's a Rahmuh like you doing all the way out here?"

"You've got me on that one, sir. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, we just got here from headquarters – routine rogue checks and all that."

"They've never sent anyone this far out before," the boy noted, to which Cloud merely shrugged.

"Someone decided better safe than never, apparently."

"I guess I'm glad they did," Kytes continued unexpectedly. Beckoning for them to follow, he retreated to the counter and pulled out a file, still talking as he went, "we haven't got any full-blown rogue attacks yet, but we _have_ been getting some unusual activity off the Small Island."

A set of photographs were passed, along with a continued explanation: "These were taken by the owner of the seaside shack. He's concerned something may be up in the caves, and even more concerned of what it's capable of."

"What makes him so sure the kids aren't doing it?"

"You'll need to see those caves for yourself, or at least how high up they are. Either way, no one's doing anymore climbing today – it's already getting dark."

"We'll check it tomorrow, then," Cloud decided. "Do you have a place we can use for the night?"

"We don't get visitors often, but we do have one room. That is…if you don't mind sharing?"

A glare of accusation was fired from one to the other, returned amiably by a façade of innocence.

"… We'll share," Cloud answered finally. If Kytes had been confused by the exchange, he did not show it. Instead, he slid open another door.

"The spare blankets are in the cupboard, the bathroom is over that way, the lights go out in five hours, and we have a daily morning alarm. Have a good night."

Seven hours later – two after the light from the hall dimmed into darkness – a single flashlight illuminated the small room that accommodated the two partners. Sitting on the floor, Cloud leaned against a bedpost as he studied the photographs in his hand. They were of poor quality, but told him enough. Behind his head, the mattress shifted.

"Still not sleeping?"

"Neither are you. What do you think?"

On his back, Leon held up another of the photographs, flipping it over a few times. "I'm up for checking this one, just to be sure."

"Worried about the kids, huh?"

"Aren't you?"

The flashlight clicked off, and Cloud tugged off his boots. "We'll leave first thing in the morning, then. Scoot over."

The mattress shifted again, this time occupied by not one but two bodies. As Cloud settled back against the sheets, an arm draped over his chest without invitation.

"… _That_ was what you were waiting for, wasn't it?"

Leon did not answer, the faint buzzing indicating exactly how comfortable he was. Giving up, Cloud stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the other purring and slowly counting off the ticks of the clock. After twenty counts, he deemed himself at last safe to be unconscious without anything unwanted happening. Only then did he allow the warmth and the rumbling drone to lull him to sleep.

* * *

When the agent and his partner did not show up that morning, Sora ended up sneaking pass his mother to get out of the house. He wanted some air and a place to be alone, to think about all that was happening. There was only one place that could give him that.

Getting a canoe that early wasn't any trouble, nor was the short trip across the water to the Small Island. It was getting to the cave that had become harder to do, ever since old man Santiago started his paranoia regarding the area. He was thankful to find the seaside shack's owner still asleep, in no position to stop him from returning to his favorite hideout.

He called it the Secret Place – not even his best friends seemed to know it existed, despite their suspicions. Most of the walls were covered liberally in chalk drawings, the bit of limestone rock he used still sitting by a far wall, waiting patiently for whatever he planned next.

He looked at the drawing he had yet to finish, even though he had started it a long time ago. It looked childish, depicting a floating head that was himself offering a star to someone; someone he had not quite completed either.

_Wonder what she'd think if I told her this truth about myself_… His musings brought a smirk to his face, and curiously, he brought up the chalk toward it once more.

"Nice place you have here."

The rock dropped back to the ground, and Sora's hands flew out to cover the drawing as he sputtered at the intruder. "WH-wha- _Why are you here?_"

Undaunted, Cloud remained where he stood, staring up at the white marks over each wall. "You're pretty good at this. Been doing it long?"

When the boy – too upset at being discovered in his hideout – remained silent, Cloud at last explained himself, "We followed someone's request to do an investigation; something about weird happenings in this cave. Would you know anything about that?"

"…no."

"… How did you get up here, anyway?"

"I jumped the ledge," the boy answered more easily. "Wasn't that what you did?"

It was Cloud's turn to fall silent, studying the other with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable. Then, with a soft sigh, he crossed the distance between them and handed a picture frame over.

"Here's your father back. Sorry I took so long."

Sora took the frame back carefully, looking over the image he had already memorized. Then he remembered something and dug into his own pocket until he found it. "Here's your friend's badge."

The agent raised a brow in surprise. "You brought it with you?"

"I wanted reference," Sora replied, indicating the blank wall just to his side. "How about you? Why did you bring my Dad?"

"Didn't want to risk losing… him."

"How did you know him, anyway?" Before the other could respond, Sora continued quickly, "I saw your face back there, I _know_ you recognized him."

"Not _him_ per se," Cloud admitted slowly. "He just… reminded me of someone."

"Who was that?"

"One of the superiors, back at headquarters." The agent practically saw the wheels turn in the boy's head, and added, "I can tell you now that they're not the same person. Too much age difference."

"Oh…"

There was another uncomfortable silence that followed, as neither truly knew what to say to the other. Finally, it was Cloud who broke that silence: "So… your mother told you what we're here to do, huh?"

"Can you be perfectly honest with me?" At an affirmative nod, Sora asked his next question, "Why did you come for me?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you only come now?"

"I don't know."

"Does this have anything to do with my father, or my family?"

"I don't know."

"So why is it so important that I come with you?" Sora asked more irritably, the answer to each of his earlier questions not helping in the least. "_Why does it have to be me?_"

Cloud did not rise with him, staring back at the younger quietly. When he at last gave his answer…

"I don't know."

There was no malice, no deception, no patronizing. It was the truth in its cruelly simple, honest form. Sora gave up, sitting down on the ground again. "They don't tell you anything either?"

"Nothing more than we need to know."

"How do you do it?" This time, the question was more of a comment. "Just going in, getting the job done with no questions asked. How do you keep working for them if they won't tell you anything?"

"It's the only way I know."

"To work?"

"To find my answers."

Sora looked up at once, his expression incredulous. "… What?"

"We all have our secrets," Cloud started to explain, "and Organization XIII is filled with them. Everything they never tell the world, they keep locked tight and hidden away. The only way to know what they hide is to work for them directly… intimately."

"…and," Sora tried carefully, "have you found what you wanted yet?"

Cloud looked his way, and then up at the hole above their heads, illuminating the cave in the morning rays. "… No. I can't stop until I do…" his attention was on Sora once more. "You said you wanted me to be honest with you? Well, here's the truth: I'm only here now because my mission – taking you back to headquarters – is what currently stands between me and finding those answers I'm so desperate for.

"And here's another thought: You asked me why it has to be you, if this has anything to do with your father, and I told you I don't know. The one with all your answers is the one who sent me, and he's sitting behind a desk waiting for you to finally show up. So you tell me: what's stopping you from coming with me and asking him yourself?"

There was any number of things Sora could say, but as they all came to the surface, none of them stood on their own. Some involved personal pride, some involved suddenly trivial fears and concerns; others were groundless. In the end, there was only one that made it pass his lips:

"… I don't know."

Both needed time to think, and when Cloud relaxed his stance, he wondered if he had come down too harsh on the other. At last, he plopped down beside Sora, and tried a gentler approach.

"Look… you don't have to read too much into it. Just come back with us. Think of it as a… road trip or something – you'll see the world outside the Islands, we'll teach you some survival skills, and in the end, if you're not happy, you get to say no and return home, return here. It's all in your favor. How about it?"

Sora remained quiet, and Cloud could not help but wonder, this time, if he had really blown it. Still he sat by the boy, counting on the allowance for their proximity to be a good thing.

"… Is there really no other way to find my truth?"

"If there is, neither of us knows."

"… Okay." And Sora looked up as he continued, "But I have friends here that mean a lot to me. I can't leave without saying goodbye first."

"Take the time you need," Cloud assured, simply relieved that things were working out. "Once you're ready, we'll go."

"Alright…" as he drifted off, Sora got to his feet. "… I guess I'd better head home and pack. Mom doesn't know I'm out here."

"We'll meet you at your place, then."

With an awkward smile, Sora waved once and left the way he came in. Cloud waited for the footsteps, expecting the sound of an impact … When all he heard was a light footfall, he followed the trail the younger left behind.

He stared pass the ledge, down at the beach that was far below. There were no visible scuff marks on the rocks, but the footprints in the sand were still there.

"… 'Jumped', he said," he murmured to himself. "… How in Hellfire does anyone jump _this…_?"

* * *

"Good job with the sales pitch. That's one less thing on the list."

"Yeah," Cloud agreed tiredly, watching Sora in the distance. "Hyne help me and let him be the last kid I ever recruit."

After Sora made it home and they had a final talk with his mother, Cloud had gone over what were necessities and what would only be extra baggage for the long trip ahead. What Sora finally _did_ end up carrying with him were a few trinkets – objects of personal value. At least he had agreed to leave the picture frame in his mother's safekeeping.

Now, Sora was fidgeting by the dock, his eyes darting between the town and everywhere else, save the direction his two new mentors were in.

"So… why are we here?"

"He said he needed to say goodbye to his friends first. I figure he called them to meet him here or something."

"Is that them?"

Following Leon's direction, Cloud picked out the pair of boy and girl that were just leaving the town and coming toward the dock. Sure enough, Sora was waving to them, and they hurried over. The conversation that followed missed his ears, but Cloud had his alternative source of information.

"Care to fill me in?"

"He's telling them what's going on. They're not taking it too well," Leon explained. "The boy, Riku, is wondering if we can be trusted. The girl, Kairi, is more upset with him for not saying something sooner."

"And Sora?"

"Apologizing, trying to explain, and not doing too good." Leon's answer was followed by a quick glance his partner's way. "Just what did you say to make him agree?"

"Does it matter?"

"He's calling this a road trip."

"It is, if you think about it. With Roxas taking so many precautions, he'll get to see the world before we reach HQ."

Leon smirked, shaking his head in amusement, but as he heard what was said next, that amusement disappeared at once with a worried frown.

"… _No_," he muttered in disbelief.

"No!" Sora suddenly cried out in dismay. It was only then that Cloud saw the three approaching. Sora was apparently trying very hard to dissuade his friends, which did not end well.

"No," the girl – Kairi – answered whatever protest Sora had sent her way. But it was not her to make the confrontation. Standing before the very confused agent, the boy Riku said the last thing Cloud wanted to hear at that moment.

"Agent of Organization XIII, we're volunteering for service training and coming with you."

Cloud paled at once, his entire will keeping him from something he might regret later.

… _Hyne, NO._


	12. Where There is Smoke

_I'm a little more satisfied to have finished this before Christmas, but not because I beat last year's deadline. It's more of a self-achievement that I managed to say so much with so few line breaks in between. But enough of that… time for announcements._

_Old business: the character audition is still open, and will stay open until I say otherwise (yes, I have bored myself too with repeating this over and over)._

_New business: From now until the New Year, I'm opening myself to questions (For more information, finish reading this chapter and see the footnotes)._

_Furthermore: if things seem different in here, don't be alarmed. I'm just – little by little – giving things their much needed fixing for the sake of better reading and more enjoyment; the content remains the same regardless._

_Please enjoy._

* * *

"… _What_," Cloud uttered dangerously, "_did you say?_"

Undaunted, Riku stood his ground as he replied in a defiant manner, "You heard me the first time, big guy. We're coming with you."

"_Really_…? Then _no_," the agent answered tersely, one hand up in a mock wave. "It's been a pleasure. Let's have lunch sometime. Now go home."

Eyes narrowed, the silver-haired youth shifted his feet into a more aggressive stance, his arms remaining lax. "Same to you, sir: _No_."

Cloud's hand dropped to his side, and he glared darkly at the teenager before him. "Give me _one_ good reason _why_ I should let either of you tag along."

"You're recruiting, and we just volunteered to be recruited," Riku answered evenly, before retorting: "Now give _me_ one good reason why we can't."

There was an amused snort from the sidelines, and the agent momentarily directed his anger toward his smirking partner. Leon simply lifted his hands, palms up, and shook his head. Choosing not to answer the wordless comment about how he was battling wits with a kid, Cloud returned his attention to the waiting, smirking youth. What he said wasn't the best choice he could wish for in his arsenal, but it was the most sensible.

"Neither of you are eighteen or older, and neither of you have your parents' approval." Kairi appeared thoughtful of his words, while the arrogant smirk was wiped off Riku's face. Out of the way, Sora looked torn between expressing relief and disappointment. Refraining from a tempting smugness, Cloud maintained a poker face as he turned away. "Well, that settles that. Nice talking to you-"

"What if we get permission, then?" Despite becoming the sudden center of attention, the girl made a credible effort not to cave under it any more than fidgeting a little as she explained herself. "I mean, we just have to ask. If our parents let us, there's no problem… right?"

Riku's smirk was back. Leon huffed and shook his head once more in clear amusement. Cloud's left brow twitched. At last, the agent conceded: "You have until we get a ride off this island. If we're gone before you get back, you're not coming at all."

"That sounds fair enough. We'll see you later!"

_Don't count on it, you damn punk,_ Cloud was tempted to voice aloud. Instead, he silently bore with said "punk's" mock salute as the pair of adolescents turned and ran back into town. The second they were out of earshot, he turned and moved _fast_.

"Get the first boat out of here, I don't care which. We're leaving _now_," he announced sharply. Obliging his partner, Leon led the way back toward the dock. As Cloud turned back, he found Sora lingering behind, still looking back up at his hometown. Softening his stance, the agent called to him. "If there _is_ a ship on its way out soon, we can't afford to wait."

At last, the boy nodded in understanding and caught up with them. Soon enough, Leon pointed out a modestly sized fishing boat that was just loading up. After some swift exchanges, the skipper waved them aboard. As the ship's motor started up, there was still no sign of either Riku or Kairi, and Cloud breathed a traitorous sigh of relief.

He should have known that was going to jinx him.

Just before the boat could pull out of the dock, two blurred figures shot down the row of planks and vaulted onto the deck with a loud clamor. The skipper freaked out and nearly tumbled over his small son, and the little boy's frustrated cries at his father to calm down added to the already irritating noise. The agent stared dumbly in open disbelief as the two teenagers dusted themselves off casually.

"Hi again," Riku helpfully supplied, "_so_, where do we sign?"

Cloud tried to say something several times, each time ending in awkward, sputtering failure. At last, with a choice curse, he grabbed Sora by the back of his shirt and dropped him to sit with the other two adolescents. "_Your_ friends," he growled before stalking down the deck.

All the while, Sora gaped like a goldfish before he found his words. "How did… How did you-?"

"We got lucky, actually," the taller boy answered. "My folks were visiting Kairi's, so we asked them all at one go. Though we didn't mention Organization XIII, just the 'road trip' bit."

The former's face was the expression of bewilderment. "And they _agreed_?"

"No, actually, they turned us down flat," Kairi explained easily. "So we bolted back out the door the moment their backs were turned."

Before Sora could protest about the behavior, Riku clocked him upside the head. "Face it, Sora. You're stuck with us."

Rubbing at the impact point, the shorter boy wore an unreadable expression on his face. Then, quite suddenly, it was broken with a full-fledged grin, and he swiftly tackled his two friends in a fierce hug. An excited rattle filled the air, reaching the ears of a very grumpy agent. Cloud sent a death glare straight at his partner, who was not hiding his amusement regarding the whole situation.

"Go ahead. Laugh it up _now_," he muttered. "Don't forget that we'll eventually have to feed these guys."

* * *

Eventually, things calmed down, both on board the fishing boat as well as on the sea. At last trusting the waves to not suddenly spin the vessel a hundred eighty, the skipper allowed his nervousness to truly show about having passengers.

Having never left the islands prior to this moment, all three teenagers could not sit still as they wandered about the deck, captivated by all that was going on about them as though they were young children once again. No one could really blame them for their reactions to the changed environment, and since they did not cause any trouble, Cloud did not see fit to restrain any of them. Just watching them move so quickly about with little concern for their safety was making him tired.

Sora's mood had improved greatly, his friends joining him and the excitement of the trip helping it along, and soon he managed to coax the nervous skipper into conversation.

"What about Fasticalons? Have you ever caught any of those, Captain Marlin?"

"Well… no…" the skipper admitted uneasily, "Fasticalons would be in a different part of the ocean, and I don't intend to take the _Clownfish_ that far."

"But why not?" he probed further. "Aren't Fasticalons tastier?"

"Well… it's not safe."

"… oh," and a small silence followed before Sora quickly changed the subject. "Do you know any fish jokes?"

The poor skipper blinked in confusion. "… Come again?"

"Well, you call your boat the _Clownfish_, so there's gotta be a reason!"

The skipper seemed ready to back out, but somehow – and by some weird power – he was persuaded otherwise.

"Well, actually, I know one joke…" Rubbing the back of his neck reflexively, the skipper turned away from the controls for a moment as he faced his eager audience. "There's a mollusk, see, and he walks up to a sea- well, he doesn't really walk up, he _swims_ up…"

As the man stumbled over his own joke, Cloud noticed the once bright light of hope in Sora's bright blue eyes dim so very steadily. Ignoring the fact that the boy had brought this on himself, the agent felt a twinge of pity for him – after all, he was the only one who _really_ had to pay attention.

"… Well actually, the mollusk isn't moving. He's in one place, and then the sea cucumber… Wait, I'm mixed up…"

Next to Cloud, Leon sighed softly and planted his face back into his palms as he attempted to meditate.

"… There was a mollusk and a sea cucumber. None of them are walking, so that doesn't-" and then the doomed joke was interrupted by the skipper's shriek of utter panic. "_Nemo, get away from there! DON'T TOUCH THAT!_"

"_Finally_ he stops," Cloud groaned out between grinding teeth as the skipper ran straight for his son and whatever the little boy was up to. "… How about we figure out our route now?"

At an almost pleading nod from his partner, the agent retrieved a map from the abandoned desk. It was a good one, covering every explored territory at the most recent date. Cloud soon singled out a spot and brought Leon's attention to it with his finger. "According to the skipper, the boat will unload at Montressor Fishing Port. We'll rest at one of the inns for a bit, stock up on supplies, and _then_ we need to find a place where we can get work."

The skipper could be heard clearly in the background, fussing over his son and raising hell over whatever the boy had been up to. Choosing to ignore him, Leon instead nodded, prompting his partner to continue. Cloud's finger travelled upward, stopping at a slightly larger location before tapping it decisively.

"Traverse Town is a good place to start. We can reach it easily enough by shuttle and I know a recruiter there – he won't look twice so long as we have that mercenary pass Roxas issued us, and the jobs he offers pay well for the work needed. It's where we go after that I'm concerned with," Cloud continued. "We need to keep a low profile, but we can't risk Sora's safety while we're at it… and no. Don't bother with that look – I still don't care about those two extras we're saddled with… _Yes_, I'll feed them, but that doesn't mean I'll care-"

"Where's the break? Do you feel a break? Sometimes you can't tell. There's fluid rushing to the area. Are there any rushing fluids? Are you woozy? How many stripes do I have? _Answer the stripe question!_" the skipper suddenly demanded loudly, momentarily distracting them as young Nemo rolled his eyes and gave his answers in a long-suffering manner. There was a strange curl to Leon's lips, and he snapped his fingers for his partner's attention. With a thumb one way and a finger the other, he twirled the finger in small circles to emphasize his point: _That's you in a few weeks._

"… How very Hyne-frickin' funny…"

Then the momentary crisis was over, and at once they returned to their business as though any interruption had never happened.

"… I guess the important thing is whether or not we can afford the travel fare _after_ taking into account both supplies _and_ shelter," Cloud decided. "It was a lot easier when it was just one kid in the equation, but now there are three of them… Great Hyne knows this will _not_ be problem-free…"

"So why not just go to the safe houses?"

Cloud would have crushed the map under the fists that had been startled closed, if Leon had not swatted them away in the nick of time. Still, the agent silently conjured a few choice oaths in his mind as he turned to his current nemesis. Riku looked back with a face of innocence, waiting for an answer that did not come. So, he tried again.

"You're an agent, aren't you? What's wrong with using Organization XIII's facilities if you're working for them?"

"We can't do that," the agent replied. "We need to avoid the notice of the Organization until we actually get there."

The youth raised a brow, a skeptical expression on his face. "… And… why is that?"

"That's classified information."

"Then how are we supposed to know if you're really working with this organization at all?"

"You don't," Cloud answered firmly.

The boy's eyes narrowed into a warning glare, and he would have said something if only the boat had not chosen that appropriate moment to suddenly lurch dangerously. The agent instinctively grabbed Riku by the front of his shirt before the youth tumbled down the deck, and his partner caught Sora in a similar manner just as the boy slid by ungracefully. Back at the starboard, the skipper was screaming in perhaps unwarranted panic all over again.

Then the boat righted once more, albeit a few gentler rocks back and forth until it was stable once more. Both men released their individual holds, allowing the boys to get back on their feet as words at last registered.

"… Did he just say something about a monster?"

"Not 'monster'," Kairi called in correction, waving from the railing where she stood beside Nemo. "He meant Monstro."

"Is there supposed to be a difference?"

The girl laughed at the question and beckoned them over. They arrived in time to watch a dark shadow glide under the boat, and Cloud tensed as he recognized a tail and fins. If they were being attacked by some sort of misshapen shark now…

Grinning in good humor, Nemo suddenly stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled twice despite his father's protest. Almost at once, the shadow reappeared and broke the surface. As it revealed itself with a loud splash, any earlier tension and wariness gave way abruptly.

"… _That_'s Monstro?"

"Uh huh," Nemo answered proudly. "He's my best friend! Isn't he cool?"

"… I was expecting bigger," Cloud confessed, still staring down at the undoubtedly young sperm whale that was a bit less than three quarters of the boat's length.

"He's still little now, but he's gonna be _really big_ when he grows up!" –The boy extended his arms as far as they could go to emphasize his point- "He'll be big enough to swallow _ships_!"

Under them, "Monstro" clicked happily as another passing boat caught its attention. In a second, the baby whale submerged again and pursued it for the cloud of chum that had been dumped in its wake.

"We're nearing the fishing port!" the skipper announced from his place by the wheel. "If you're looking for an inn, you can try The Benbow."

"Thanks, we will."

"Dad, _Dad!_" –Nemo detached himself from the railing to tug at his father's shirt- "Dad, can I go with them? I wanna say hi to Mrs. Hawkins and Dr. Doppler and-"

"Now, son, I _really_ think you should stay here with me."

"But Dad…!"

"The port is _not safe_, boy!"

Catching Leon's not-very-subtle "you in a few weeks" gesture, Cloud scowled and knocked the offending digit aside. "Shut up."

* * *

The Benbow was surprisingly easy to find in the overly crowded port. Many sailors expressed fond memories of the place, and were more than willing to point the way for the five travelers. It was small, but it exuded a welcoming aura that seemed to coax them closer.

"Watch yourselves and don't leave anything valuable in plain sight," Cloud warned the lesser experienced of the group. "Places like these are usually crawling with thieves, pickpockets and kleptomaniacs. I have no intention of stalling myself just to chase anyone down."

After receiving a satisfactory show of understanding, the agent pushed open the door and led the way inside. At once, he noticed the drop in temperature – it was not a stark difference, but the air was cool enough to provide relief from the midday heat outside. Upon scanning the general area, he found the source almost at once.

Surrounded by a small crowd of children, a single figure wearing a baggy parka sat with his back pressed to a wall at the far end of the room, where a shut window provided light to the otherwise dim setting. His hands moved with a regal grace, and under those skillful hands were two tiny figurines dancing with one another as even tinier swords clashed with the chiming of bells.

"'_**There is no escape. Don't make me destroy you.**_'"

Several gasps were heard as one translucent "warrior" spun and struck at the other, more chimes filling the air with each blow. With only a smile and a nod at the newcomers, the hooded figure directed the small puppets under his hands and continued telling his tale.

"Again they clash, blade upon blade, light against the darkness…" he spoke gently, his voice carrying through the room. "'_**Join**__** me**_**…**' the dark knight says, '**… **_**Join me, and together we can end this destructive conflict… forever.**_'

"The paladin does not falter as he gives his harsh reply: '_**… Never…!**_'"

And again the two miniature men twirled under the light filtering through the window, bits of striking blue reflecting off their frosted surfaces as a chilly mist rose around them. Laying eyes on the ice figurines, Cloud understood at once.

"… A Shiva," he identified under his breath. It was not soft enough, and the boy by his right looked up curiously. Obliging, he explained: "They are Guardians with a talent for ice magic and, to an extent, healing magic."

Hearing that, Sora's eyes widened. "Does that mean he's also with O-?"

"Unlikely," the agent cut off at once. "Male Shivas are a rare and 'exotic' option only certain private sectors will favor."

If he meant anything by the statement, the more innocent youth did not get it. Regardless, he and his friends soon joined the circle of wide-eyed youngsters, curious to hear the rest of the tale. The storyteller's eyes beheld a strange gleam as he resumed his puppetry.

"'_**I'll never join you,**_' the paladin says. '_**You killed my father!**_'"

The "dark knight" – different only by shape and not by color – suddenly lashed out at its opponent, and several shocked yelps echoed through the audience as the tiny "blade" dropped from the "paladin's" grasp. The victor stood tall, the loser crouched low. The "dark knight" lowered its "sword" and extended a hand toward its fallen foe.

"The dark knight stares through the holes in his shiny mask," the storyteller spoke in an eerie tone, "and he speaks words that _burn_ in the hero's heart forever…

"'_**No,**_' he whispers, '_**I am your father.**_'"

A high pitched whine rang through the chilly air as the tiny puppet "screamed", echoed by sympathetic cries from the onlookers. Then, with a final wave of the puppeteer's hand, the "stage" was covered by a smoky wave of mist. By the sound of applause and appreciative noises, Cloud caught the idea that it was the signal for the end of the show. Leaving his group, he crossed the room in search of the innkeeper.

Amidst the excited jabber from the thoroughly entertained children, there was a snort to the side. As though expecting it, the storyteller waved good-naturedly at a man seated by another table. "Don't you like the story, Mr. Doppler?"

"That's '_Dr_. Doppler' to you, young sir. I am a _scientist_," the man – "Dr. Doppler" – insisted, waving a finger as though lecturing a wayward student, "and I do not care much for your hocus-pocus or silly fairy tales about sorceresses and knights and things that science cannot prove and- _Gah_!" Assaulted by a pointy but still harmless ice projectile, he glared at the "culprit". "_Hey…_!"

Amidst a chorus of laughter, the "dark knight" stuck its "hands" on its "hips" and appeared quite proud of itself for a moment despite being made of ice. Then the storyteller waved his hand again, and the two figurines faded away like tiny ghosts, leaving not even a drop of water behind. Enraptured, Kairi was the first to approach the table, Sora following close behind.

"That was incredible! How do you do it?"

The man smiled strangely and moved three fingers just so, another fragile little thing materializing at their tips. "Thank you, my dear, but a magician does not reveal his secrets-"

Suddenly the figure of frost – taking full form as a thin wyvern – appeared to stretch its wings and then took off flying, soaring in the space between before coming to a rest upon Sora's outstretched palm. It tipped its head as though in greeting, and folded its wings gracefully before melting away.

"… Whoa…" Sora whispered appreciatively, looking from his palm to the storyteller in wonder, then back to his palm as his fingers curled over the still cool patch of skin. He did not notice when the storyteller stared back with a strange, unreadable expression on his face; he did not get a chance to when they were suddenly joined by the reluctant leader of their group.

"Our meal's here. When you're done, Leon knows where the room is."

Nodding, the pair of teenagers left the table and rejoined the others for food. Before Cloud could follow, he felt an unnerving gaze lingering at his back and leveled a glare at the one responsible. "Something you want?"

"Not at all," the storyteller answered, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Something about you just reminds me of a customer I once had."

Grimacing in disgust, Cloud pointed an accusing finger at the man. "I don't care what you do to get your coin, rogue, but stay away from that boy."

The hooded figure threw back his head in a laugh, his hood falling away to reveal unusually slender, delicate features. When he regained his composure, his eyes had lost most of their previous light – reduced to the tiniest sparkles now – and he leered openly, an amorous attitude about him. "Now, now, lovely, it's not the boy that I want any dealings with. _You_, on the other hand…"

An icy cool caress flitted by Cloud's ear, an invasive perverse move that was nothing compared to Yuna's concerned touch, and he jerked back. "_What do you think you're doing…?_"

His hand still raised, the rogue tilted his head ever so slightly, sneaking a glance back at the other table, where Leon was eating with his three charges. "Oh?" he challenged slyly. "Not in front of the wife and kids, is it?"

Cloud felt his face burn with his fury, and his hand moved fast to seize a fistful of parka as he shoved the other harder against the wall he leaned against. There was a strange emotion in the other's eyes when suddenly the agent felt a surprisingly strong hand at the back of his head pulling him forward. It was close – not close enough for an actual act, but still close enough to look scandalous. Their foreheads tapped lightly together, and the hand held them there, waiting for something…

There was a dismayed shout from behind, and both men released one another at the same time. Cloud stepped back from the man he had been all but pressed against to notice he had regained the innkeeper's attention. Throughout the room, the guests were trying their hardest to appear disinterested. Leon looked at him blankly before resigning himself to his meal once more, implying that the three staring teenagers should do the same. Flushing, Cloud turned to apologize to the upset woman, but she was not focused on him.

Instead, it was the rogue who felt the heat of her disapproving glare, and he readjusted his thick jacket almost bashfully. "Forgive me, Mrs. Hawkins. It won't happen again."

"_Out_," she ordered sharply. "And don't come back until you're finished!"

The man ducked outside with a meek nod of understanding, but not without dragging Cloud with him. They went around back, no longer in the sight of prying eyes. His anger nowhere near diffused, Cloud again shoved the man against the wall behind him, his fist tightened painfully in a fist as he growled. "_How dare you-_!"

The rogue's hand shot out and grabbed the agent by his forearm, stopping the moving fist from its intended target. He squeezed it firmly, not enough to injure but enough to warn. "The man at the third table from the door has been watching you since you came in. Beware of him – he's a plant," he explained at last. "Stay on your guard tonight and leave first thing in the morning. It won't take him long to notice what I saw in your young friend."

"… Why are you telling me this?" Cloud demanded. "… Just who the hell are you?"

At his questions, the man snorted. "You should pay more attention. There are more informants who would rather sell you out than the ones willing to help you." – This time, the hand did squeeze painfully – "If you have any care at all for that boy's life, don't let Don Corneo get his hands on him."

Then the rogue's hand released him, but Cloud did not leave go of the parka. Instead, his fist tightened as he pointed out: "You didn't answer either of my questions."

"Just tell your little master that I no longer owe him anything, _agent_," the rogue hissed condescendingly. "And for the record, your disguise is ridiculous. Do something about that stupid oversized gun of yours."

"… …"

"… If you're not going to pay me for my _other_ services, you can let go. I'd appreciate if you didn't punch me either and hurt my chances."

Cloud roughly knocked the man against the wall in a last effort at selfish payback before releasing him, resisting the urge to snort dismissively. "So I wasn't wrong about you, then."

"I never denied it," the other pointed out, "but just to set things straight, there are some lines that I won't cross. Children are one of them."

"And you're proud of this life?"

"We all do what we have to if we want to get by, lovely," the rogue answered bitterly, already pulling the hood back over his head and hiding his better features once more. "Don't waste anymore breath on me, now. There are just some memories that I find worth losing all else to keep…"

The agent frowned, staring after the retreating back. "What are you talking about?"

There was no answer. With a final mocking wave of farewell, the rogue turned a corner and stepped out of sight.

* * *

Long after his charges passed out for the night, Leon remained standing by the window. His jacket and shirt long since discarded by a bedpost, he stuck his hands in his pockets as he slowly shifted his weight from one leg to the other, listening to the muted sounds of the belts' metal and leather scratching against denim. Before, he would have winced with displeasure over how much noise they added to his once silent movements. Now, he had other things on his mind to distract him.

The image of that afternoon's events refused to leave him alone, showing him again and again with morbid clarity the Shiva rogue that had grabbed Cloud like that. He could still picture vividly that effeminate, fragile-looking thing of beauty which would make so many attractive ladies pale in comparison, his hands _touching_ Cloud as though he owned him…

For the sake of keeping things from escalating out of control, he had dismissed it as nothing, not even reacting when the pair of them had left and did not come back. But deep in his gut, the raw emotion of _something_ close to rage was still festering. It was eating at his insides, clawing in desperation to be released in any way possible. Starting as a hot fire in his lower abdomen, it spread out like a web, its tips freezing his lungs. Everything was hurting, torturing him for his silence, and all he could do was keep holding it in.

There was a louder scratching from the thick blanket to the side as one of the boys shifted in his sleep, mumbling unintelligible things before settling down again. With a tired sigh, Leon dropped into a crouch and leaned backwards until his spine rubbed against the wall. For a moment, he wanted to indulge himself with blaming the mission and his duty for not allowing him reprieve. If only Sora was not there – never mind his two imposing friends – he would have shot after his partner and settled everything right there and then.

Realizing exactly where his thoughts were going, Leon groaned and nursed the bridge of his nose, his thumb pressing into the aged scar that sliced across from it. When he finally looked up again, catching sight of usually dark spikes of hair that were now black in the darkness of the room, he resigned himself once more to fate. As much as he wanted to blame the boy for being a burden, Sora had not asked for any of this. None of them had.

His thoughts were again distracted by his environment. This time, heavy footsteps were approaching the door, and then a low chime echoed from a key being jammed into the lock. Only moments later, the door swung open to reveal the missing agent. Leon did not greet him, nor did he rise from his crouched position by the wall. The pain was escalating, and he did not trust himself to say or do something he could easily regret later. He could only wait, assuming his partner wanted to talk.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and then Cloud was crossing the room, dropping a large sack to the ground as noiselessly as possible before he did explain himself in a whisper. "I had to make a detour. There are some things that came up." Then, at the unasked question that was lingering in the tension between them, he went on. "That rogue was an informant, and I can only assume Roxas had a hand in his being there. It seems we may have some company tonight, so we'll have to take turns keeping watch."

When Leon again refused to give a verbal answer, Cloud seemed resigned to that fact as he tugged open the sack while pulling off his jacket. Still, the agent kept talking, filling the other in on as many details as possible.

"I'll have to take First Tsurugi apart, find some way to conceal most of the guns if I still want to carry them. The sniper rifle will probably have to get sent back to HQ, too… Now that I think about it, it was too painfully obvious that I'm getting recognized as an agent even without identifying myself as such. No _wonder_ that high-strung skipper backed down so quickly and let us onboard. We can't keep that up if we want to complete the mission…."

And as Cloud's shirt was lifted from his torso, the raw emotion in Leon's gut suddenly crowed in haughty victory. Any words the agent said after were too much effort to make out, droning into a warble that he did not care to pay attention to. Baser instincts were interfering with him, insisting that he answer them right there. It took all his effort to cling tightly to what remained of logic, that answering those instincts was a step he could not retrace, that if it happened too soon it could leave dire consequences…

"Though I have to admit, that rogue was ridiculously stronger than I thought. If he had actually gone _through_ with making that pass at me, I don't think I could stop it-"

… _Screw logic._

In a swift fluid motion, Leon jerked upright and crossed the distance between himself and Cloud. Arms wrapping around the man's shoulders, he all but tackled him into the closest wall, pinning him there as he choked on his own heavy breathing. The body he had captured had gone limp, perhaps in too much shock to fully register what was happening, but the fueled emotion within him urged him on anyway, promising to compensate for whatever he did not get reciprocated with.

_Oh HELL what am I doing?_ He mentally lamented, even as his traitorous body continued to near-throttle the unresponsive man under him. _What am I doing?!_

It was insane, terrifying him as much as it excited him. From that first moment he felt the new bond between agent and Guardian wrap around him in a welcoming embrace – proceeding then to shackle him to a new partner for the rest of his life – all those urges and all that hunger he had ignored before came back with a vengeance. Every time he had forced himself to meditate them away, at the most allowing nothing more than prolonged body contact when the other was either dead to the world or too sleepy to know better…

This time, there would be no "taking a walk" or "reading a book" or anything else more peaceful and dignified. Each of those primal desires of his wanted their turn right there, right now. In a sordid self-reflection, he mused that this was his Spirit's alternative to just humping a couch. It was depressingly pathetic.

Despite all that raw desire still yelling at him for fulfillment, he felt something more: anger… self-loathing… shame… He heard Cloud's strangled breath, felt warm breath tickle his ear, and nearly lost himself a second time. With a frustrated growl, he planted his palms instead against the wall, pushing hard against the surface as his head remained buried in the crook of his partner's neck.

"Cloud," he whispered urgently, already feeling his own body's attempt to rebel against him. "Cloud, I…"

His voice seemed to revive his partner, and the man was finally reacting with his stiffened posture. "Leon, what the hell is-?"

"… Tell me to stop," he forced the request, feeling his resolve waver under the pressing, primal urges. "It has to be you."

"What the hell are you saying?" any sharpness that was to be expected was not there, lost to a wary fear that could be _heard_ in the agent's voice.

"Tell me you don't want this. Say it… and mean it."

As though he had finally regained himself, the agent he was pinning suddenly grabbed him by his shoulders and tried to pry him off with force alone. He was not surprised when his body refused to obey the silent order, instead waiting on the verbal instruction that at last reached his ears.

"_Get off me._"

The effect was instantaneous, and Leon released his captive and retreated to a more respectable distance at once. The stirring within him shrank away like a dog that had been whacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, and only now – with his senses fully restored to him – did he feel a flush of embarrassment at what just occurred. With a nervous cough, he covered his mouth with one hand and looked away, not knowing what he could possibly say to remedy the situation.

Still leaning heavily against the wall, Cloud was glaring at him with a chilling intensity. His teeth were bared in a silent growl, and his hands had instinctively wrapped around his torso in a defensive hug. He was panting – they both were – and the next words that he uttered were full of anger.

"_What,_" he hissed, thankfully not loud enough to wake the three sleeping teenagers, "_the hell was that?_"

"… Your fault," Leon growled back under his breath, his earlier shame giving way to resentment. "This is all… your fault."

"The _hell_," Cloud retorted, barely able to keep from shouting, "is _you _assaulting_ me_… _my_ fault?"

"It's what you wanted… I just gave you the rest of the extended package."

"The bloody _point_, Leon. Get to it."

Leon's hand dropped to his side, and he fixed Cloud with a glare of his own, the flush still hot on his face as he spoke in a controlled voice.

"… The imprinting process…" His hand shot up again, this time in a gesture for silence. "I… do not know all the details… but from my previous experience… it has to do with emotion… It bonds partners… by the strongest possible feeling… that they can possess… for one another…

"When I first imprinted… the strongest emotion… was the love… between a parent and child." He paused, his lips curling into a menacing sneer at the man who had not known any better. "… Can you guess… what could _possibly_... be the strongest emotion… between two adults of no blood relation in their _prime_?"

As he watched, he could literally see the blood drain from Cloud's face as the revelation dawned upon him. With a bitter sigh, he said the words the other would be unable to.

"Love… or lust… whichever sounds more appropriate for you right now. Seems about right, doesn't it?"

Cloud was mouthing a string of curses that Leon did not care to read, and he sank to sit on the floor with little dignity. Chancing a glance back at the three – grateful that none of them had been roused – Leon dropped to the floor as well, his own mind in a whirl.

"I'm not gay," Cloud finally uttered with a vehement force. "I can't be. I was with _Tifa_…!"

"I _know_ that, damn it, I was _right there_," Leon growled back. "It's just this damn bond… it takes something as simple as mutual liking… and turns that into…" with a final muttered oath against his spirit, he threw his hand up dismissively.

"… Why didn't you say anything sooner…? Were you even… _ever_ going to tell me?"

"With allowance, I would have dragged it down to my grave," he confessed. "I just never expected myself to lose it over that damn _Shiva_…!

"Even now, I'd be happy if we could pretend this never happened. It's obvious you don't want this, and I'm not going to force it on you."

"And how do I really know that?" Cloud retorted in an accusing tone. "How do I know this won't happen again just _because_?"

Meeting his gaze once more, Leon fully regained his composure before answering:

"Isn't it obvious, Cloud 'Strife'? You're my friend.

"That first day we met, when you fought me, I was expecting you to walk out and never come back. I was expecting to never see you again. I knew all that… but because of that fight, even if we could not be partners, I could at least think of you as my friend.

"And because you're my friend," –his tone was gentler now- "I respect you with all my heart. You make stupid decisions, you're insane when you get angry, and you go behind my back because you have issues over _talking_ to me, and yet I respect you… and even if I object to them at times, I respect your decisions. That is why if you don't want this, I won't force it on you."

And for a while, they just sat there, neither one talking any more when neither knew what to really say… until Cloud broke the awkward silence at last.

"Did you, by any chance, have a crush on me back then that resulted in this?"

Leon stared, his expression dumbfounded, and then he brought a palm up to firmly smack into his forehead. "Asshole…! I just poured out my heart to you like an emotional high school girl, and the first thing you do is imply the situation _you_ caused was indirectly _my_ doing?"

"Well, I had to be sure."

"I can't believe you…"

Then, as they looked at one another, their composures broke, giving way to smirks threatening on the verge of laughter. For a minute, it seemed that they _would_ laugh, allowing mirth to wash away all the tension between them earlier. But it never happened, and the mood sobered once more.

"Nothing has to change between us," Leon reassured. "The spirit will have to settle down and learn its place eventually. We're partners in our work and friends outside of it. That's it."

"Thanks," Cloud answered after a while, "… but I don't think I can do that."

Leon was ready to question or protest, whichever he could form words for faster, but with strangely impeccable timing, the moment was shattered by outside intervention. He could hear it just beyond the door: a soft, scuffling series of scratches that was gentle footfalls along the wooden floor of the hallway. Cloud had caught on at once, and motioned back at where First Tsurugi leaned against a corner, tip pressed into the carpet.

Shaking his head quickly, Leon instead motioned for Cloud to get to the other side of the door. Taking position by the knob, he crouched… and waited, listening to every unavoidable sound that the intruder was making.

There was the jiggling of the handle, sounds of a struggle to pick the lock as quietly as possible. Suddenly, there was an almost deafening "click" before the knob turned and the door swung open. Something dark and metallic gleamed through the darkness, and then a shadowy form stepped into the room. It barely made it five steps before Leon struck.

The gun landed with a loud clatter to the ground, two bodies heavily landing a distance away from it with a resounding thump that at last woke Riku from his slumber. The boy blinked drowsily, realized what was going on and was fully aware at once. With a gesture at the teen to remain quiet, Cloud shut the door and locked it once more before circling around the fallen captive.

With a muted "click", light returned to the room, waking the remaining two adolescents even as it revealed the intruder for all eyes to see. It turned out to be a man in his twenties, his filthy garb recognizable as that of a longshoreman instead of a sailor. His eyes were wild and darting about in search of his weapon, though his hands were struggling in a futile attempt to pry Leon's fingers from his throat.

Cloud knelt behind his head, hovering over him as he calmly observed the furious man. To the side, Sora and Kairi were trying to get answers from Riku as the boy kept signaling for them to be silent.

"Who sent you?" Cloud demanded.

"Don't play dumb with me," the man growled back, his tone carrying a mix of disbelief and anger. "You _know_. You know _everything_."

"I don't. You can fill me in, or my partner can snap your head off your shoulders."

"Someone told you that I'd come," the man continued, ignoring the previous words meant to threaten him. His eyes suddenly narrowed into predatory slits as he cursed. "It was that whore. He warned you-"

A finger moved just so, cutting the man off with a gurgle. When the pressure let up again, he remained in wary silence as Cloud got to his feet and crossed the room to where First Tsurugi was. A series of loud clicks and cluttering echoed before he was back. And in his hand was his carbine, silencer on.

Pressing the gun to the man's temple, Cloud renewed his threat. "I want answers, so start coughing them up _right_ _now_."

"Or what?" the man leered back, "You gonna shoot me? Go ahead, you pansy pretty boy. You don't have the _b_-"

Cloud pulled the trigger.

_CLICK!_

"_SHIT!_" the man cried out in a higher octave, just as a series of thumps indicated the shocked youths had backpedaled right into the headboards behind them. Leon looked up, his glare disapproving at not at the action, but at the disappointing result.

"What? I can't forget to load?" Cloud protested without breaking his calm demeanor, his hands to his sides with the gun still in grip. "Cut me a break. I'm only human…!"

Rolling his eyes, Leon jerked his head back toward the gun before returning his full attention to their captive. Shrugging indifferently, Cloud made his second trip to the rest of his guns, this time returning with a single bullet sitting on his palm. The bullet soon disappeared into the carbine, and the carbine returned to rest on the temple.

"One more time: start talking or start praying."

"_I know nothing, I swear!_" the man cried out instantly, shivering visibly as words slid right off his tongue with slimy ease. "The boss stuck me here to stake out. My target was the fag and that was it, but then you came along and I thought I'd grab your kids as well and- _damn it, I'm just doing my damn job!_"

"What does he want them for?"

"_I swear I don't know!_" the man whined pathetically. "I just grab them, nothing else!"

"Where's the rest of your group?"

"I'm al-"

Cloud sighed irritably, pressing down just a little harder to elicit another whimper. "Wrong answer – try again."

"At the shuttle station," the captive squeaked. "If I'm not back by sunrise, they'll come after me to finish the job."

"How many are there?"

The man choked on a sob before giving it up without a fight. "Five… and one has a shotgun."

"Anything else you'd like to say?"

"I've told you everything already, I swear…!"

"Stop swearing, you gibbering prick. There are children present," Cloud commented, before repeating: "Anything?"

"No."

"No _what…_?"

"No sir."

"Okay, then…"

_CRACK!_

The man slumped back, his body going completely limp under Leon's hold. Lowering the carbine to his side, Cloud straightened and turned to the gaping onlookers. "Get dressed. We need to leave as soon as possible."

It took a wasted second before they obeyed without question, and Cloud returned his gaze to the prone figure and the blood that slid down the side of his face.

"You got lucky today," he muttered disdainfully. "If it weren't for those kids, you'd be dead right now and no one would find your body."

There was a soft snort, and Cloud ignored the jibe that he was getting soft. Instead, he looked to his partner with seriousness.

"We're going to finish that talk," he promised. "Once we get everyone out of here in one piece."


	13. There is Fire

_Ho ho-dee-frickin'-ho._

_It's either a Christmas miracle, or a Christmas foul up. Either way, I haven't had the chance to sleep properly since I started, and would much like to rectify that right now. Please excuse me for any messes I might have left behind in there, and I promise to fix them as soon as I stop passing out on my feet._

Kaname Kazuya (c) -Anonymous Insanity-

_A/N: Please note that "{text like this}" will be used generally for "translated" non-English dialogue – as will be demonstrated in this chapter. While I will still use foreign languages in their written form from time to time, if I feel the need for the words, in will come the brackets._

_Until next time…!_

* * *

"We have to hurry."

Leon looked up from where he was still straddling their captive, the man still dead to the world and unaware of his impending fate. Above him, Cloud still held his carbine in one hand, but in his other was a set of clothes that smelled like old cardboard. The agent alternated glances between them and the ones who were scrambling to get ready beside them. Finally, with a sigh, he continued as he was.

"It has to happen eventually," he added in passing. "You know what's best for now."

It was Leon's turn to sigh deeply, left to the ugly task before him. Cloud disappeared into the adjoining bathroom – for Kairi's sake more than anyone else's – and the Guardian sought to ignore his unwilling audience as he placed his hands on the unconscious man.

A sickening "pop" echoed through the room, and the echoed ruckus around him was what he had been expecting. Not pausing to allow them recovery and protest, he moved on to dislocate the other shoulder as well. Only when he was done did he sit back, and then rise completely to drag the man to a corner of the room.

Watching him in horror, Kairi had her hands over her mouth, and she was shivering as her eyes brimmed with tears she was too stunned to let flow. Beside her, Riku's face was a deathly pallor, his lips drawn so tight they were but thin white lines. It was Sora who choked first, no longer able to keep his feet as he collapsed to sit clumsily on the bed.

"_Why did you do that?_" he demanded.

"It buys us time," Cloud answered, returning from the bathroom fully dressed in his new attire. "With a broken leg, he can still crawl out of here. With a sliced tongue, he can still run to his colleagues for help before he bleeds to death. This way, even if he frees himself, the door will provide enough of a hindrance to trap him here until we're gone."

"_But_-" Sora started again, but at once Cloud was across the room, his hand on the boy's shoulder as he cut off the protest.

"The only other way would be to kill him."

It was at that statement that the boy fell silent, his frame still trembling with unspoken anger at the act. Without another word, Cloud squeezed gently before releasing the boy and moving on to the next thing on his list.

As he kept his hands busy with securing the man's ankles together with the telephone cable, Leon wondered for a moment if that had been necessary. Innocence had just been ripped from under the adolescents' feet so suddenly, and though any of them could claim otherwise, they were so very much still children. Children who were about to be forced into adulthood a step too quickly, if only for the sake of keeping at least one of them alive…

Just as he finished, his shirt landed atop his head, and he stuck out a hand to catch the jacket that followed not two seconds afterward. Exhaling loudly, Leon pulled the shirt off and shook it out before he proceeded to tug it over his head. Across the room, Cloud looked his faithful gun over one final time, and then started to take it apart piece by piece. Each individual firearm was laid down on the carpet, and when the agent was at last holding his handguns, he motioned for the three youths to approach him. When they finally did, he held out the pair of weapons.

"Do any of you know how to use these things?" he asked. They shook their heads, to which he huffed. "Good – shame on your parents if you did. All the same, here…"

Quite unprepared, Riku and Kairi nearly dropped the twin guns that were shoved into their hands. Catching their horrified glances at the deadly tools, Cloud felt it appropriate to set things straight: "The safety is still on, and I'm not teaching you what to do about that either. All you're going to do with that is stand there and look scary if you have to."

"… What about me?" At the soft, hesitant question, Cloud's expression remained neutral as he turned to the boy.

"You don't need one. You're staying with Leon." Then, thoughtful about his earlier harshness, he continued in what he hoped was reassurance. "He won't let anyone harm you."

Momentarily taken aback by the honest statement, Sora turned to fix his gaze on Leon, silently seeking confirmation from the other man. Allowing a small half-smile for the nervous boy's sake, Leon nodded as he produced his revolver from its hiding place for the briefest of moments before putting it away once more. Only he and his partner knew the high improbability of his actually using it, but its presence at least provided some needed security.

Setting aside the last of First Tsurugi's additional casing, Cloud dug into the sack one more time to find the rest of his newly purchased equipment. It sickened him to recall how _easily_ he had found and obtained each one, but it was also a sinful comfort that he did. The pair of shotguns slipped into a carrying case, and he paused to buckle a holster on his leg before sliding the carbine in. All that was left was the sniper rifle, which he picked up only after stuffing the remaining casing and his previous attire into the sack.

"Once you're ready," he addressed the rest of the group as a whole, "we meet downstairs."

Without waiting for an answer, the agent slid out the door and stepped silently down the hallway. By the time he reached the stairs, he was aware that someone was already down there. In a second, he had reached for the carbine – awkward with the new method of accessing it – before he recognized who it was. Withdrawing his hand without fully relaxing, he descended the steps to greet the person.

"Mrs. Hawkins."

Startled, the innkeeper turned at once while instinctively backing away. It was only when she in turn recognized him – despite the rather prominent rifle in his hand – before she relaxed a little and started to speak: "Mr. Strife… I heard the noise. What is-?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's little time to explain," he interrupted, standing before her. "Do you know where the r- the storyteller is?"

"I don't know. He hasn't returned since he ran out the door with you earlier," she replied. From the way her eyes moved, he could tell she was worried. "Even with his… well, other work, he is usually back by now."

"When he does get back, can you relay a message for me?" When she nodded, he continued, "Let him know he's no longer safe here, and to meet us at the shuttle station. Also, be sure to give this to him."

"… What do you mean?"

"Is there anyone here you can trust who knows how to use a gun?" Cloud asked instead, laying his rifle on the nearest table. Before she could repeat her question, he pressed further. "Please, this is important."

Thankfully, she sensed the urgency and answered him: "Delbert has a pistol somewhere."

"Wake him up and make sure he has it on him until the r- well, until he gets here."

"I know what he is, Mr. Strife," she stated calmly, and there in her eyes was a spark of determination… along with what he vaguely recognized as maternal concern. "He told me himself when he first came to be here. Please, just tell me... What is happening to him?"

"I can't say for sure," he admitted, after some deliberation, "but I do know that he has enemies who won't spare this place just to find him. One of them is lying unconscious in our room as we speak."

"… I'll wake Delbert."

Cloud bowed his head briefly, both in gratitude and in apology, as she turned and disappeared into a different room. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, he lifted his gaze to where the remaining members of his group were just coming downstairs.

"… Will she be okay?" Kairi asked aloud, but her voice still timidly soft.

"If that man was telling the truth, we can make sure of that," the agent replied, already reaching for the main doors. "Let's go."

* * *

The night air was freezing cold against exposed skin, and Cloud instinctively drew his jacket closer about his body. He brought up the rear, while Leon with his better night vision – and other senses – led the way. Between them, the youths were tense and rigid in their movements, startling at the slightest moving shadows about them. As they walked at a forced pace, the holster's slow sway against his leg was becoming less awkward and more comforting, and he squeezed the handles of the carrier case to remind himself that the shotguns were still there.

To not have First Tsurugi in full form at his back made his shoulders feel that much lighter but uncomfortably vulnerable. Despite the thick clothing he wore, he couldn't have felt more naked in his life. Frowning, he instead reached to stroke the leather flap covering his carbine, taking assurance that he was still armed, still able to defend himself and his company when the time came.

Suddenly, they stopped. Before they could fully recover, the agent followed the swift direction to duck. Already, Leon had grabbed Sora and pulled him to the pavement, and he had barely managed to do the same for Kairi and Riku before a loud crack echoed through the once still air.

The expected shotgun wielder had declared his presence.

At the next deafening gunshot, agent and guardian separated, each with their own charges. Pulling the boy and girl after him behind the protection of a rusted iron crate, Cloud spotted Leon running just ahead, all but carrying the smaller boy as he dodged the following shots that rang in his ears. Releasing the pair, the agent growled as he tugged his carbine free from its sheath. About to warn them to stay down, he no longer saw the need to when a thundering chorus announced the presence of the remaining attackers.

Raising his gun, he fired blind over the crate twice before dropping for cover once more. At first, there was silence – not two seconds after, the shots rang out yet again, this time getting closer. To his relief, he did not hear the shotgun another time.

"Where's Sora?"

"I don't know… stay right there." Once certain that the boy was following his order, Cloud dared a glance pass their temporary shield. He could not see any silver light, any indication at all that the pair of brunets was nearby. And if they weren't, then that had to mean…

…_that the gunmen _let_ them go by._

Suppressing the urge to curse colorfully, Cloud started to rise – to see his shot for a more decent aim – but ducked in the nick of time as the previously silent shotgun fired at his head and barely missed him, instead crashing against the iron surface as though striking a gong. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Cloud squeezed the grip of his carbine painfully and glared at the carrier case with his shotguns that was still out on the pavement like a sitting duck.

_Damn it, what are they up to…?_

* * *

The moment they had reached the station, Leon all but threw them behind the safety of a pillar. Pressed against the cool surface, he kept his ears open, listening as intently as possible for the sounds in his immediate environment. There were the gunshots in the distance, the panting of the boy next to him, his own breathing… but apart from that, the station seemed too empty… too quiet…

He had counted three gunmen earlier in passing: two with handguns to keep Cloud occupied, and that one with the shotgun to take the shot where it truly mattered. In that way, all three effectively kept the agent pinned. To have dealt with them on the spot risked drawing the attention of the remaining two, but to leave the station and go after them now risked endangering his charge – the frightened boy that now clung instinctively to his jacket. His own arm was around the thin shoulders, pressing Sora close to his side as he scanned his surroundings.

And yet, no attack was made. No sound, not even a breath to be heard that was not theirs. They had to be waiting on them – either to lure them into a false sense of security, or to scare them into a state of panic. Either way, they were expecting him to do something foolish. All too familiar with this trick, Leon resisted the reflexive urge to close his eyes, instead drawing Sora even closer to his body in hopes of calming the boy.

The waiting game continued. The fists on his jacket tightened, then slackened, and then tightened again in inconsistent intervals. Not knowing if he should comfort the trembling youth or keep him in his state of awareness, Leon kept listening, knowing that it was only a matter of time before one of them cracked, or slipped up.

And then he saw the movement, and his body was reacting accordingly.

One minute, Sora had been clinging to Leon with all the force he could muster, able to do nothing against his fear but trust the man's promise to keep him safe. Then in the next, he was roughly shoved aside, skidding against the rough tiles as a loud gunshot cracked in the air about them. He cried out as his arm seemed to burn under him, but the sharp pain was what he needed to shock him back to his senses. As he looked up, his eyes widened at the sight he was beholding.

Leon was flat on his back, but already curling forward and wrestling with an attacker for the gun that still smoked from the earlier shot. There was no blood – not yet – and when the attacker drew his arm back to take a swing, Leon shifted his feet under the unguarded belly and kicked him off. No sooner had he done so when he was assaulted again by a second man, but this time he managed to roll with the punch, getting his feet under him and jumping up to meet the barrage of attacks.

The two men – dressed much like the one who had entered their room at the inn – were taking turns to strike at Leon from opposite sides, and while neither seemed to give the Guardian trouble by themselves, as a whole they kept him from focusing on any one of them for an extended period of time. The one on the left seemed more aggressive, swinging and punching every time Leon's eyes left him for so much as half a second. The one on the right, however, seemed to be waiting for something.

Then, as Leon dodged and moved to counter a wild swing of a firearm as a blunt weapon, that man surged forward, and in his hand something _gleamed_. Sora called a warning too late as he watched the man bring the gleaming piece down on Leon's unguarded arm.

The sound of metal going through flesh that he expected did not come. Instead, he heard a soft "clink", and as he dared to look again, saw both men step away quickly. There, clamped tightly over Leon's left wrist, was not the knife that Sora had feared, but an odd-looking bangle of tarnished copper. For a fleeting moment, Leon only stood there, appearing as confused as he was. Then, quite suddenly, the entire arm seized up, shaking violently as an invisible current ran through it. Caught off-guard, Leon uttered a strangled sound before curling in on himself.

The men were sharing evil smiles, their very expressions giving away how they _knew_ this would happen. They were moving in again, and the man on the left raised his gun for the one strike he intended to land home. He came to a stop just an arm's breadth away from the Guardian and with the momentum brought his arm swinging down. The strike did not finish.

An equally fast – no, faster – movement shot upward, stealing the weapon from its owner. Before the grin could even disappear from the smug face, the man was thrown backward, his head snapping up from the force of the gun's butt cracking loudly against his jawbone. Leon did not drop the weapon, still clenching it hard by its barrel, as he turned to the remaining man. Before the former assailant could think to run, the gun came down upon his head with the same powerful force as it had on his accomplice. With a strangled cry, he crumpled where he stood.

For what seemed like an eternity to Sora, not one man moved from their place. Leon stood over the fallen duo, his left arm hanging limp at his side save for the gentler shakes that continued to wrack it without mercy. Lifting his right hand, he flipped the gun around, now holding it upside down but in a better position to threaten with. His accomplice unconscious from that blow to his head, the remaining man at the left struggled to his feet. Leveling a hateful glare at the Guardian, he turned to run, back to where the other gunmen were.

Just as he reached the top step, the man's leading foot stopped awkwardly and sent the rest of the body tumbling to land in a messy heap. Straining to see, Sora watched as the man fought to rise again, but slowly, surely, ceased his struggles, lying there still as a statue. Only when he caught the glint of reflected light off arms and legs did Sora realize the man was, quite literally, frozen in place.

Then another figure joined their presence, and – seemingly ignoring both the Guardian and his ward – stepped over to the still unconscious man. He held out his hand, palm down. In a glow of blue light, more ice appeared to encase unresponsive limbs. With the task done, the newest arrival stood over the fallen forms without any further action. Sora looked away from him, back at Leon, and was promptly scrambling to stand as the Guardian in turn slowly sank to his knees with a stifled groan.

"… Leon?"

His protector did not respond, remaining hunched over as Sora closed the distance between them. At closer inspection, the boy found the man's face contorted with pain, the skin deathly pale and fat beads of sweat rolling down and dripping off his jaw. And his right hand seemed to be squeezing the life out of his left forearm, just above where the bangle remained wrapped around his wrist. Suspecting at once that it was the offensive article that was to blame, Sora reached for it.

There was a firm hand on his shoulder, and a familiar voice in his ear: "Don't touch it."

Turning to voice his protest, Sora found himself looking upon the visage of The Benbow's storyteller. Shaking his head once more, the man only let him go when the boy obediently withdrew his hand back to his side. With a murmur of approval, the Shiva lifted his hood slightly to better examine the one before them, and Sora caught sight of two brilliant marbles of shimmering light. Then the storyteller's attention was on him again, his tone serious despite his question.

"Tell me: where is your angry friend?"

Understanding whom he meant, Sora wordlessly pointed out into the street, where they could see the gunfight still underway with no sign of a conclusion. Beside him, the Shiva breathed an unintelligible sound of distress as he watched.

"That's not good. We need him here." –He turned again to Sora- "I must ask of your help."

Sora blinked. "… _Me_?"

The Shiva did not answer right away, only coaxing the boy to patience with his strange smile as he seated himself. Hands pressed into one another, palms crossed, and slowly did the one on top curl inward, and an icy cool breeze drifted from the gaps between. When they parted fully, a small bird of ice sat on the remaining palm, before it shook itself out as though wet. The Shiva motioned for Sora to lift his own palm up, and the bird hopped upon it, the freezing cold of its tiny feet causing the boy to flinch.

"I can give it form, and I can maintain that form," -the voice that spoke to him was barely above a whisper, strained with exhaustion- "but you have to be the one who will give it flight."

Drawn by the display of magic, Sora did not question the words as the Shiva instead directed him to look on the ongoing fight again. With a finger, he singled out the man in the center, poised and ready with his shotgun.

"Find your target… Focus on what you wish to happen…"

The little bird stretched its wings as Sora obeyed the instruction.

"… Now, let it go."

Without stopping to think, Sora tipped his head forward and blew gently at the ice bird's tail. The comical action took effect as the bird lifted off from its perch and sailed in strange arches – up and down – as it approached the man like a bee to a flower. It hovered there, flitting from side to side, unnoticed… until the very moment it dove straight down the man's collar. With an unmanly yelp, the man jumped half a foot in the air as he struggled to find the icy object that caused him such grief.

Cloud did not waste the opening given to him, and at once took aim and fired. One shot, then two more, and the battle was at last over. Even then, none of the three fallen men were dead; the wounds strategically intended to not be fatal but still enough to keep them down for the count. Waving Riku and Kairi after him, Cloud grabbed the carrier case and ran for the station. Before he could ask any questions, the exhausted rogue pointed him back to where Leon remained on his knees.

Uttering a series of crude remarks, Cloud ran straight for the man, immediately finding what was wrong. The bangle came off all too easily, but the moment Cloud had wrested it from Leon's wrist, the Guardian lurched forward with a tired groan, and Cloud caught him before he could hit the ground. Glaring darkly at the now harmless object in his hands, the agent vengefully smashed it against the tiles, satisfied only when he heard something break within it with a series of tiny cracks. Only after his sense returned to him did the agent remember there were other matters to worry about.

"I see you got my message," he commented flatly, "but how the hell did you get around us?"

The rogue snorted and waved a hand dismissively. "I live here. Of course I'd know the shortcuts."

With only a grunt of acknowledgment, Cloud helped Leon to sit more comfortably before he looked properly at the man. "Where's my gun?"

"If I could use one, would I be in the streets?" the rogue retorted, before shaking his head as though answering his own question. "No, it's back at the inn. I asked Mrs. H to keep an eye on it and came here as soon as I could."

"So she's alright, then?"

"A lot more so than all of us combined, I gather." –He managed to look smug- "I left the poor dear in the protection of a far better man, and I trust the peg-leg old sea salt further than he can throw me."

Cloud paused for a moment, and then probed carefully. "…'peg-leg'? It's not the one-legged, one-eyed and one-armed sea cook with the hand-cannon, is it?"

"That woman and her son know how to pick their allies. But that aside…" There was a shifting as the rogue got to his feet, and then came to kneel beside the pair. He looked Leon over, and finally held out a hand in silent offering. "The paralysis has to wear off on its own, but I can at least help with the pain."

"You're near dead on your feet. Are you sure?" When the Shiva waved off the attempt to dissuade him, Cloud remained distrustful, earning a tired sigh.

"I'm as much a healer as I'm a jester. Will you let me do my job?"

"… Can you promise to keep his secret, then?" -The rogue raised a brow, prompting for an explanation- "If you can't, I'm not letting you touch him."

With a patronizing huff, the rogue relented. "If it means that much to you…"

A thin pale hand took hold of Leon's left wrist, and familiar blue light glowed softly around it. Leon was just relaxing into the hold – taking comfort in the soothing aura – when suddenly the light disappeared with a startled jerk and the Shiva looked directly at him with shock written all over his face, no doubt having noticed the taint of the Griever's spirit in Leon's blood during the use of healing magic.

"Blessed Gaia, you're…!" At the unfinished sentence, Leon nodded.

"Do we still have your promise?" Cloud asked again over his shoulder. The rogue seemed to choke before he laughed aloud.

"What you just gave me was _priceless_. Even if you did not have my word, there is nothing in this world of a value equal to this information."

Cloud breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I trust you won't sell it."

"Not even in exchange for my wasted life," the rogue reassured firmly, but in his eyes was a strange gleam as he continued. "Nevertheless, there is one thing I'd like to ask for in return."

"And what would that be?"

"May I heal you as well, young zephyr?" And the rogue was pointing out the red abrasion on Sora's arm, a reminder of his earlier acquaintance with the station's uneven tiles. With a frown, the teen tugged at his sleeve in a futile attempt to hide the mark.

"It doesn't hurt," he claimed softly, earning a gentle smile and a more insistent gesture of the hand. At last, he surrendered it to the man's administration, watching as pale blue light encircled the angry wound before closing it up completely. Yet, with the superficial injury taken care of, the rogue did not release the boy immediately. Smiling faintly, he instead regarded the youth before him with new understanding.

"So I see… Thank you," he spoke this time to Cloud, at last withdrawing his hand and rising slowly to his feet. Leaning heavily against a pillar, he dug in his parka until he found what he was looking for. "… There's something Mrs. Hawkins asked me to give you…"

He then produced a large misshapen skeleton key, its ring the shape of a ship's wheel and its teeth bearing the appearance of an anchor. From its end dangled an incredibly tiny replica of a coin. Motioning for Sora to open his hand, he dropped it on the waiting palm.

"That's her son's key. She asks that when you find him, to tell him something for her…" his eyes drifting close against his will, he pried them open again before speaking, "Tell him she worries, and wants him to come home."

The still air was suddenly disrupted by a low horn in the distance. As they watched, the first shuttle of the day drew into the station. Morning had come, and with it would be the people.

"Well, there's your ride," the rogue quipped, pushing off the pillar and straightening. "Once I settle the rest of my accounts here, I'll be on my way as well. What do you want me to do with your leftovers?"

"See if you can hand them over to my colleagues," Cloud replied, busy with hauling Leon to his feet. "It'd be even better if you have them delivered straight to my handler. She'll know what to do."

The Shiva hummed with interest, tugging his hood into a better position against the first rays of sunlight. "Give me a name, and I'll think about it."

"Tifa Lockhart."

"Uh huh…"

Once everyone was seated, Cloud looked out at the rogue one final time. They exchanged a nod, and the agent started to pull the door close behind them.

"… Hey!"

The door stopped midway, and the broken bangle was tossed for the agent to catch.

"Know the enemy, know the self," was all that the sly rogue offered. Staring at the object, Cloud sighed and shook his head before sending the man a crude salute in return.

"… Stay out of trouble, you spoony bard," he muttered, allowing a small smirk to play on his face.

Hearing him clearly enough, the laughing Shiva dropped into an exaggerated flamboyant bow before the door slid shut and the shuttle went on its way. And if any of them chanced a look back, they would see that he was already gone.

* * *

"… **Passengers are reminded to not leave your valuables unattended. Special areas are designated for the elderly and those with disabilities. Please surrender these seats when they are needed…**"

Cloud listened with minimal interest to the recorded message as it finished its run – and started to repeat itself in a different language – before he tuned it out altogether. As the only passengers in the railcar, his group was granted all the privacy and momentary relief they desired. It wasn't very big, with a seating capacity probably big enough for twenty – excluding standing – and doors on either side that led to the driver's cab at the front and the observation platform at the end.

It was on that platform that the agent sought out some peace to think. His hands were restless, fingers fiddling along the grooves where strange runes were engraved into the copper surface of the broken bangle. He could not decipher their meaning, but knew they were no more than fancy decoration – all of the bangle's power had come from its internal mechanization and with that broken, it was no more than a fancy toy. At least, that was what he hoped, with nothing else to prove otherwise at the moment.

A muted tapping against glass interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Riku wave at him from behind the door. With a sigh, he reached forward and flipped a latch, allowing the door to be slid back before he confronted the teen. "He's awake, huh?"

Nodding silently, the boy stepped aside and let him pass. The door slid shut behind the agent as he crossed the mostly vacant railcar to where the others were seated. Gripping the back of the seats tight enough for the material to creak, Leon pulled himself up and adjusted until he was in a proper sitting position. Cloud did not comment on his partner's stubborn pride, his attention drawn by the man's overall condition. While looking a great deal better than before, the pallor on his face had yet to fade and his left arm was still limp by his side.

On either side of the Guardian, Sora and Kairi were seated as close as they could without touching him, and were quick to make room for the agent as he sat next to his partner. All three youths were watching intently as one man examined the other to the best of his ability. Sensing the question that none of them seemed able to ask aloud, Cloud gave his answer without sounding too patronizing: "He'll be fine. The effects should wear off completely by the time we reach Traverse Town."

"What is that thing?"

Caught off guard by the abrupt question, Cloud blinked before following the accusing finger's direction. Still in his lap was the bangle he had yet to put away, and he understood the boy's hostility and fear toward it.

"I can't say anything specific, but there have been reports about these things," he answered carefully. "As a matter of fact, this is the first actual… specimen I've come across."

"So what _is_ it?" Ignoring the impatience in the repeated demand, Cloud continued his explanation.

"Years ago, we had about four reports from the field agents of Guardians disappearing more frequently than usual. What made these cases so interesting was that a majority of the missing was highly skilled – to be taken so easily and without anyone noticing before it was too late… Investigations went underway, but by then whoever was responsible had smartened up and stopped. Our most detailed report came four months after…

"The report was made by an agent, with confirmation from the two Guardians he was partnered with: a Bahamut and a Fenrir. They had managed to save a rogue from his kidnappers, and that was how they discovered _this_." The agent paused, holding the offending object up for a better view. "They called it the Curse Bangle. In his writing, the agent described it as a tool meant not only to restrain, but to completely incapacitate, leaving the victim helpless and much easier to carry off without a struggle."

His finger found the runes again, tracing over their lines with familiarity. "According to his partners, the theory is a lot more benign than reality. What the Curse Bangle does is cause pain – a lot of pain, and the inability to stop it. Even if they _could_ access their spirit's power, the paralysis will have them on the ground before they can think of using it. Just one touch is like an electric shock, but prolonged contact… let's just say our friend here underplays the idea of 'sheer hell' a little too well."

Next to him, Leon scoffed quietly at the remark, but otherwise denied nothing. Although unable to take their eyes off it, not one of their charges seemed ready to touch the bangle either.

"… But you pulled it off him," Riku noted, breaking the momentary silence. "If it's as bad as they say, why didn't it affect you?"

"The same reason the agent was able to help the rogue remove his without trouble," Cloud replied. "When Guardians receive their spirits, the spirits enhance them, changing their blood. Apparently, the technology in the Curse Bangle's mechanism reacts to that, so non-Guardian folk such as the rest of us would not be threatened by it at all… Sora, is there something you wish to say?"

The boy flushed in an instant, torn between embarrassment at being noticed so easily and nervousness about what he truly did wish to talk about. Too used to dealing with people – clients and targets alike – and their varying emotional states, Cloud found this one as easy to read as an open book. Patiently, he waited for the youth to make his decision.

"… It's nothing, I… it's just…" trailing off, Sora finally lifted his gaze just enough to focus on Leon's unmoving left hand. "I never thought anything could hurt a Guardian. At least, not like this…"

Because Guardians were as they had been named – they guarded, they watched over others, protecting them as the faithful shields against any danger. They were like the heroes of folklore, _invincible_, without any form of weakness to deter them from their duties. Once, Cloud had believed that, too, and he would have kept on believing it …

"If only, kid…" he agreed softly, tuning out the memories that assaulted him before carrying on at normal volume. "But that is part reason why the public does not know about this yet. Guardians are the muscle of Organization XIII, and if people lose their fear and respect for them, so too will the Organization's reputation suffer.

"As for the ones who made this damned thing," –he huffed in sardonic amusement- "it's too valuable a trump card to share with anyone else. I only hope they'll keep thinking that way."

There was so much more he could tell them, but for now it was enough, especially after all that had happened earlier. So he stopped, waiting for another question to be asked. None came, and from the looks on their faces, they didn't seem to really know what they should ask. Deciding when he had waiting long enough, Cloud spoke again: "Can I trust you three to watch yourselves for a while? I want to be doubly sure this guy is fine, and he's never good with an audience."

Understanding his request, the teenagers got up, one after the other, and stepped toward the observation platform. When Sora lingered, Leon directed his gaze on the boy.

"About earlier… I… well… Thanks." _For being there. For protecting me. For keeping your promise._

Leon nodded vaguely in acceptance. It was enough to satisfy the youth, and he followed his friends across the railcar. The moment the door slid shut behind them – the barrier and distance between acting as a sufficient sound buffer – he allowed himself to slump heavily against the seat with a shaky sigh. At his side, he heard a sound of disapproval.

"Stubborn moron," Cloud accused, reaching for Leon's left hand. Supporting the wrist with the heel of his palm, he squeezed the thumb firmly. "Can you feel me doing that?"

"I can," Leon answered, unable to pull away. "I just can't move it."

"And the rest of your left side?" the agent probed further. "I mean it – fess up. Even if you're exhausted, your movements are stiffer than usual."

"It's nothing that won't wear off."

Breathing an irritated growl, Cloud set the hand down again. "Some days you just have to be so damn conceited, don't you?"

"Like _you're_ one to talk…" Leon retorted, his tone void of any real malice. With a weary chuckle, he turned his gaze on his partner. "We're just _perfect_ for each other, aren't we?"

"A Hyne-mocked match made in heaven."

Suddenly, the mood sobered, neither able to avoid any longer the topic that was on both their minds. Cloud was grateful that their charges did not seem ready to come back inside anytime too soon, and he took a deep, calming breath before speaking again.

"We can't be together – at least, not in that way. No, let me finish…" –he was straightening, turning to properly meet the gaze of the other man- "I can't see myself involved with another man, but I know what friendship is. This isn't friendship, Leon. It's beyond that."

He got to his feet, standing before the one who remained seated. "When I see you, I see someone who has my back, who will stand by me where no one else will. I see someone who will kick me in the head when he has to, but otherwise trusts me to know what I am doing. I see someone who has shed his blood for my sake, who has given me everything… There's only one other I know who was like that."

"It was Zack, wasn't it?" Leon guessed.

"Yeah… it's very much the same, but at the same time it isn't. Zack would never stop talking, never stop trusting in me. I knew him better than I knew myself. But as for you… well, I barely know you. I know what you eat, how you sleep, how you communicate without words, little things that I _should_ know to live with you and keep you alive. But apart from the basics, I can't understand you, and I have no idea what makes you tick… but what I do know, is that I've come to the point where I can no longer do without you.

"You're not just a friend to me anymore. You're my family." He stopped, needing to take a breath before he finished… "I know this isn't fair to you, but… can I ask you to think of me the same way?"

"…as family," Leon repeated. Not trusting his words, Cloud nodded. To his surprise, the brunet smirked. "… You realize that's a step up from what _I_ called _you_ last night."

Feeling debased, the agent shook his head in exasperation. "Is this some kind of revenge for my attitude then?"

"Hardly… but I know what you're trying to say." There was a thoughtful pause, and then the Guardian nodded. "If this is what you want…"

"It is…" Allowing the words to drift off, Cloud turned to look back at the platform. "I'd better get those kids back here before something _does_ happen-"

Suddenly, Leon reached forward with his right hand, snagging Cloud by the back of his head and dragging him to lean down. As their foreheads bumped lightly, shining silver eyes bore deep into blue.

"_**No matter our relationship…**_" his deep voice rumbled in Cloud's ear, "_**Just know that, when the time comes, I will give my life for you.**_"

Hearing the solemn vow, Cloud did not fight the hold as he understood its meaning – it was a final profession of love, coming not just from Leon, but from the Griever as well, the Guardian's entirety making that pledge to him. It was oddly humbling, and yet it felt right.

Then, the hand released him, and Leon blinked. The light receded once more, and the brunet turned away.

"… You can let them back in now," he informed lightly.

* * *

"So what do you think?" Cloud asked from Leon's right. "Is anything wrong here?"

There was no immediate answer to either question, and Leon took another step forward while flexing his left hand carefully. Since the railcar had brought them into the station, the pair had fallen back into their more comfortable roles as partners once more, and Leon had indeed recovered most of his mobility. While he still bore a slight limp in his left leg, the Guardian remained standing unassisted, taking stock of their immediate environment with a trained eye.

Traverse Town seemed peaceful enough, but the problem was the ominous silence in the area. There was something almost eerie about it, like the lull before the storm, or the gap of time before a predator pounced on its unsuspecting prey. And the fact that the street was near deserted also raised some concerns. Scanning the area one more time, Leon suddenly snorted and kicked a pebble out into the open.

The unfortunate bit of street debris never made it back to the ground as a powerful gunshot blew it up in mid-flight. Almost all at once, an assortment of crazed individuals – all armed to the teeth – barreled down the street, each one hollering at the next. Throughout, they were blatantly ignoring the new arrivals. Another explosion was heard in the distance, and the entire lot swooped toward it like a flock of vultures.

The only other in the group who hadn't jumped a foot in the air, Cloud hummed in amusement as he watched the commotion. "I see nothing's changed around here. Relax – we'll be alright."

"Are you _sure_?" Sora yelped from behind the nearest "shield" he could hide behind, earning a laugh from the agent. "Who are those people?"

"Just a bunch of amateur bounty hunters. They pass through here more often than any other place," Cloud explained easily. "As threatening as they may seem, they're all lousy shots. So long as you stay near the station grounds, you'll be fine. Incoming."

Both men ducked as a stray bullet zipped by and disappeared into the side of an old empty barrel. Straightening, Cloud set his carrier case at Leon's feet. "I need to find that recruiter. I'll be right back."

With a mild, dismissive wave as response to any uttered protests, the agent strode down the street, occasionally turning his body to avoid more poorly-aimed gunshots. He soon reached his destination: a small run-down office with the word "JOBS" painted sloppily in black over the window. Jiggling the faulty doorknob a few times, he finally raised his knee and kicked at it. Only then did the wooden barrier swing aside obediently.

"We are closed," a voice drawled lazily. Leaving the door wide open behind him, Cloud glared at the single occupant within the office, sitting behind a desk with his face hidden behind a newspaper.

"You'll just have to make an exception, Kaname," he answered. There was a long, drawn out beat, and then the newspaper was lowered. One eye narrowed – the other hidden behind a black patch –, squinting unnecessarily before widening with equally dramatic flair. A loud whoop filled the confined space, and quite suddenly the agent found himself assaulted.

"_KU-BO!_" the "assailant" greeted jovially, his fist in spiky hair and rubbing with fervor and rattling away in his native tongue. "{Look at you! You got _taller_, and_…_ is that _muscle_? Where have you _been_ and how did you _get that_?}"

Feeling his eyelid twitch rapidly, Cloud growled and fended off any further attack. "How many times do I have to say- _will you get off me_?"

"A-ah, still so angry over small things… You have not changed that much after all!" Still laughing merrily, the recruiter backed off at last, his eyes already searching behind the agent. "And where is my favorite Zakku? Did he not come with you?"

"… No, he didn't," Cloud answered bluntly, changing the topic quickly. "I'm looking for a job, Kaname."

"Oh, is that all?" When the agent nodded, he in turn shrugged. "Sorry, no can do."

"Look, I've no time for games, here-"

"Neither do I, friend!" the recruiter insisted. "But your timing is just so bad. You saw the crazy bounty hunters out there again, right?"

Realization dawned on him, and Cloud groaned into his palm. "… Let me guess… there is an expensive outlaw here who looks a lot like me."

"He does," the recruiter agreed, holding up the "wanted" poster. "Look at that – he is blond and pointy. You are blond and pointy. Do you share a barber?"

Ignoring the teasing remark, Cloud snatched up the poster and read the rest of the description. "It also says here he's significantly taller than me and wears a red coat. How in Odin's sullied name are people going to have us confused?"

"{People are stupid crazy! I'm taking _no_ chances here!}" the recruiter suddenly sang out, his hand up to reinforce the "no". Then he lowered it and started to explain: "Listen, Ku-bo-"

"My name is _Cloud_."

"… Listen, Ku-bo, I want to help you, but I also worry about the town. Those idiots out there are close to knocking it down without even landing one bullet on their actual target. Right now, Sheriff Woody and Officer Lightyear have the entire force patrolling the streets just to keep the fools from killing each other by accident."

"Howdy, Kaz!" a red-headed officer called, waving as she passed the open door.

"Duck, Jessie!" the recruiter called back. Just as she did, yet another stray bullet zipped by where her ten-gallon hat had previously been. Screaming something that sounded rather inappropriate for such a darling girl, the officer straightened and aimed her fury at an unseen culprit.

"_Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln, that's it! You! C'mere! Gimme that thing…!_"

Precious seconds were lost as the recruiter and agent stood there watching with mild fascination as the yodeling cowgirl chased an armed, screaming man down the road. And when the spectacle was out of sight, the recruiter shrugged and retreated behind his desk. Grinding out a frustrated sound between clenched teeth, Cloud followed after him and tried again.

"Kaname, I need the money. I have a mercenary pass-"

"Even if I let you, no one would take you on," the recruiter interrupted fluidly. "I have plenty of job offers, but until that outlaw clears out of this area, no one will risk hiring someone who looks close enough to him."

About to protest again, Cloud paused to think. Then, an idea hit him. "… I have a partner who looks nothing like the guy."

Immediately, the recruiter looked up. "Can he do manual labor like you?"

It was Cloud's turn to shrug, "Maybe, probably even better."

"You should have just said so!" And with another hearty laugh, the recruiter rubbed his hands gleefully together. "Now, what was that about a mercenary pass?"

* * *

The talks that followed were kept brief, but with constant interruptions by the incompetent gunmen and frustrated law enforcers, they did not finish until an hour later. By the time Cloud returned to the waiting members of his group at Traverse Town's shuttle station, he found the youths had managed to calm down a little – about enough to coax Leon into teaching them self-defense. Watching the silent brunet attempt to explain blocking without words, Cloud took pity and interrupted the session with a loud clearing of his throat.

"I have some bad news and some good news," he announced. "The bad news is I couldn't get myself a job. The good news is I got Leon one."

Leon did not so much as bat an eye as he took the note his partner held out to him. He took a moment to read it, but right after he was lowering it again and raising a questionable brow at the agent.

"Whatever you say or don't say, you're still stiff. I had to keep that in mind," Cloud explained. "The man who offered this just needs some extra muscle for a small building project, and from what I understand, you won't need to do a lot of walking. Heavy lifting and working with tools though, that's to be expected."

Accepting this, Leon did not argue, and after taking in any more information the agent had to offer, he consulted the paper one more time, following its direction to where the place of employment was. It was only then that Cloud realized he was, for the first time, left alone with his charges. Suddenly feeling a little uncertain, he masked it quickly and waved Sora over.

"See, this was what he kept trying to correct… Your arm goes up… like this… no, you hold it this way…"

"Hey, agent," Riku called from his seat on the old barrel. At a hum of acknowledgment, he asked, "does Leon talk at all?"

"Why do you ask?" Cloud countered, still trying to fix the clumsy stance.

"A couple of times when Sora got it wrong, he got this really frustrated look, like he wanted to say something. He never did, though – each time, he just shook his head and moved on."

"Is that so?" Leaving the boy's question unanswered, Cloud gave up and stepped back. "It's good initiative to learn this, but it looks like you need to strengthen up first. Training will come afterward."

Sora lowered his fists from the awkward defensive pose he had been taking. "You'll train us? Really?"

"If it keeps you in one piece," the agent answered simply. "Just enough to get some needed muscle in the three of you, and then we'll move on from there."

Riku hopped off the barrel and came forward. "You mean that? Not just Sora, but Kairi and myself as well?"

"I can't seem to get rid of you anyway," the man replied. "The only one here I have to actually care about is Sora, so if anything else happens while we're out there, you two are on your own."

"Still, it's something," the silver-haired teen insisted, the usual arrogance replaced by something more serious. "Thanks."

"You'll thank me now," Cloud retorted. "You'll curse at me later."

The boy shrugged, and his tone was again cocky as he retreated to the barrel while waving both hands in circles. "Hey, so long as you don't make me wax on, wax off, it's whatever you say."

The agent had automatically started thinking of a good comeback when, too abruptly, he stopped. A memory came back to him, and what he saw was not the slightly insane town or the boy's back. He was back at headquarters, in the training room. His trainer was standing before him, not hiding his hatred as he jabbed a finger at his chest.

"_I give a shit about you, you hear me? You want to make it, become an agent? You will do exactly what I say, and do it exactly how I want it done. If I say clean this place, you clean it. If I say wash the cell door, you wash it. If I say use a toothbrush, you will use it. You talk back to me so much as once, I'll feed you your own fingers, follow up with your toes, and then after that I'll just get creative. Understand me?"_

The man had turned around to walk out of the room. Glaring at the broad back, his hands had come up, each taking a turn to circle inward.

"_Wax on… wax off… ahso…!" Just for that, he made me wash cars for a week…_

"… Uh, agent…?"

Cloud blinked, and the memory faded away. Sora was at his side, watching him intently. Riku and Kairi were just a short distance off, also looking at him. Focusing on bright aqua eyes, the agent wondered what had come over him in that brief moment. The remark had meant nothing – it was a coincidence, if anything else.

_That boy is _nothing_ like me,_ he insisted firmly, then remembering to answer, "Just thinking. Now, let's see what I'll be up against…"

* * *

"He sent _you?_"

Leon sensed that his new employer did not like him. Then again, he could not truly blame the man, although they had only just met. Still, he noticed the slow mottling of rising fury, and the cigarette between incisors was mercilessly crushed by grinding teeth.

"I pay the bloody sack of sod to get me someone who can _work_, and he sends me a frickin' two-bit punk with a _limp…? The flaming hell does he take me for, huh?_"

All around the room, hired hands were attempting to escape without looking too obvious. Though tempted for a brief second to join them, Leon managed somehow to stand his ground as the man got closer and closer to exploding.

Suddenly, there was a cough. The cigarette dropped to the ground and was crushed under a heavy boot. Either the man had mood swings, or this was the lull before the storm. The mad glint in the older man's eyes promised it was the latter when he suddenly whistled sharply at all his workers. Once he got their attention: "Gather, boys. It's time for some _tea_."

"… Sir?" one of them ventured carefully. He was a strapping fellow, easily dwarfing his employer with his bulk, but he wilted at once under the heated glare.

"You heard what I said," his employer growled. Any minute now…

"But boss-!"

"_SHUT UP!_" the man bellowed impressively, showing the near full extent of his previously pent-up anger. "_SIT YOUR ASSES DOWN IN THOSE G'DAMNED CHAIRS AND DRINK YOUR G'DAMNED __**TEA**__!_"

With startling speed, every one of the workers dropped whatever they were doing and flew to a chair in perfect obedience. The only two who remained standing were the employer and the one yet to be employed. Only one chair remained unoccupied, and with a few choice curses under his breath, the employer kicked at it.

"You and your bum leg can bloody take it. I ain't wanting a damn lawsuit."

Deciding it best to not argue, Leon accepted the seat as a tin cup filled with cold bland tea was slid over to him. At the center of the table was a set of blueprints for a strange craft, and over certain areas were scrawls in red ink. Not one man dared to touch it before their employer was hovering over it from where he stood. As he spoke, the Guardian at last understood what the whole "tea" affair was about.

In a stern voice that refused to be interrupted or ignored, the employer started to reassign tasks to each man. His finger moved rapidly over areas, and only when he asked questions did any of them really dare to say anything. In his hand, the red pen made more marks on the prints, indicating areas that were already taken care of. Finally, with every other addressed, the employer turned his attention back on Leon.

"So you want work, punk?" When Leon nodded lightly in reply, he asked another question, "did the dumbass or any-frickin'-one at all tell ya what to expect?"

When Leon nodded again, the man's eyes narrowed, and it seemed for a minute that he would start shouting again.

"S'matter with you? Can't talk?" This time, Leon shook his head, earning a tired groan from the older man. "Great… _Great_… He sent me a g'damn _charity case_. When I find that g'damn cur, I'll take his bleedin' nuts and… Screw this. Get outta here, punk, you're fired."

"Oui ryja du rena res vencd," someone commented from the side.

"Did I ask ya, deadbeat?" the man snapped back irritably. With a low growl, he got to his feet and snatched up the empty flask from the table. "When I get back, the punk better be gone."

With a loud ruckus, the employer left the workshop, and each of the workers got to their feet and retreated to their individual tasks. With a sigh of defeat, Leon rose as well and prepared to leave. He was stopped by the one who had spoken up earlier – a blond man with a large tattoo on his bare chest.

"Brother," he introduced himself with a thick Al Bhed accent, a finger pointed at that tattoo. Then he held out his hand and beckoned for the Guardian to follow. "Okay. Come."

Directing Leon to a corner of the large working area, "Brother" pointed out what a complex looking structure and a bench under it. "You strong?" he asked, and upon receiving a nod, he gestured at the bench. "You sit. I show you."

After a short demonstration on how to fit beams into slots, Leon understood why strength was needed for the task – not only were they heavy, they had to be held in place while screws were fitted in. When the brunet proved to be capable of doing both with relative ease, Brother nodded in approval before leaving him to it.

When the employer tromped back in – the refilled flask swinging at his side – he paused at Leon's back, watching him work.

"… Didn't I tell ya to leave?" he muttered, the earlier contempt gone as though it were never there. Then the man looked instead at the structure. "… These here look new. You did them, punk?"

With a distracted nod, Leon picked up another beam and set it into place. There was silence behind him, but he could still smell the cigarette smoke off the man who was watching him quietly.

"You're stronger than you look," the employer suddenly commented. "… Then again, my baby girl is smaller than you, and she can kick those slackers' asses blind." –He turned to slam the flask back on the table- "That's gotta be what they use to watch themselves work, cos' they sure ain't usin' their g'damn heads…

"Well, keep it up. When you finish that, you can call it a day."

As the employer moved on, Leon caught sight of Brother sending him a thumbs up. Relaxing, he resumed the task he was given.

As the day drew on, more and more of the workers packed their gear and left. By the time he was halfway through, Leon was the only one still at his station. Eventually, the employer came back, and sat himself down by the table to watch again.

"… Wanna know what's that you're working on, punk?" Without expecting an answer, he continued gruffly. "That's part of an airship that will never fly."

For a moment, Leon was not sure if he was supposed to respond. Instead, he kept working, focusing on doing the job right. Behind him, his boss kept talking.

"When I still had my wings, I used to fly all over the damn place, y'know? S'how I met my wife – damn woman nearly gone and killed herself to fix a fault on my flight, and I got fired cos' I didn't take off. Couldn't do it… would've bleedin' squashed her like a frickin' bug."

There was a pause, then a deep, tired sigh. There were a few light flicks, and fresh cigarette smoke assaulted his senses.

"… After she died, my baby girl upped and left. Said she wanted to do somethin' for herself, the damn brat… I get her letters, but she don't show her damn face around here anymore. Place ain't good enough for her no more… But at least she writes, eh?

"Well, this ship's for her, y'know… The shit won't fly, but it's the image of the one her ma liked best. The one that got me fired…" –he broke off with a chuckle- "Hell, I hate lookin' at this thing…"

Leon did not put too much thought into what was being said. Somehow, he understood that they were just words – words that meant nothing but still needed to be said. There was a strange comfort his employer took in rattling off nonsense, getting everything off his chest before it choked him, and he understood that.

Soon, the last screw was tightened in its place, and the brunet sat back. His employer in turn leaned forward, squinting at the structure for any faults. Eventually, what he saw satisfied him, and he announced so with a callous grunt.

"Good job. You plan on stayin'?" When Leon shook his head, he shrugged in a show of apathy before digging in his pocket. "Yeah, didn't think so. Here's your pay." – A pouch jingling with munny traded hands. – "You ever need work again, you come back and I'll give ya something to do… y'hear? Beat it, punk."

Pocketing the pouch, Leon rose from the bench and nodded his thanks. Watching him go, the employer breathed a thick puff of smoke as he too got to his feet.

"A good kid, that one," he muttered to himself. "Too bad there ain't more like him in these parts… Ain't that right?"

He looked back at the structure Leon had been working on, as though expecting it to answer him. All it reciprocated with was silence, but he snorted and turned away again.

"Shut up, Shera…"

* * *

"So, how'd it go?"

Leon shrugged in reply and tossed the pouch to Cloud's waiting hands. The agent opened the top and shook the coins into his hand, counting out a specific amount.

"Generous guy," he commented at last. "This should cover the cost of renting a car. We can drive into the next town, maybe have better luck there. We can't spare a lot for fuel though, so…"

The rest of the coins were shaken out. The agent looked them over for a thoughtful moment, and finally slid them back into the pouch and sealed it again.

"We don't have a lot of choice here. We're driving to Modeoheim, and from there we can walk to Icicle Lodge."

Both looked up and across the station. Sitting a stone's throw away, the three youths seemed to be caught up in some sort of debate, with Kairi taking the lead. Watching them, Cloud snorted as he recalled that they were from a tropical location.

"From the sunny beach to the winter wonderland," he voiced aloud. "This ought to be interesting."


	14. Mimsy Were the Borogoves

A/N: Well, here's the next chapter. I wanted to have it up sooner, but my first outline was rubbish. It took me a while to come up with version two, and then more time to actually flesh it out with details. I realize now that the Cheshire Cat's character can be both amusing as well as annoying to write. I'm not really looking forward to doing it again too soon, either.

In other news, the next update for _Just FYI_ is still WIP but coming soon (for those who don't know, it's a newsletter for trivia information about Gunmetal, mostly, that I post in deviantArt and LiveJournal). I've also recently hopped aboard the **formspring** wagon (you can find me by my pen name, as usual).

Thanks for stopping by.

* * *

"_Anything else you'd like to say?"_

_The shadow was still there, still over his head, and the round ring of metal grinding on the skin over his temple was freezing. He had not asked for this; this has not been what he wanted. He would do anything to get out of this situation – get out of this coming death – and he had readily spilled his guts if only to persuade his captor to give him more time. And then…_

"_No."_

"_No _what_…?"_

_And then, just like that…_

"_No sir."_

_He ran out of things to say…_

"_Okay, then…"_

_The metal ring of death left his forehead for a brief window of time. A single moment of false hope, and then the metal came swinging back down to crush his head-_

He woke up right there. Immediately, everything that had patiently awaiting this moment jumped upon him: an agonizing hammer at his head, a still tingling pain in both shoulders followed by numbness down the arms, and a wave of nausea that threatened to make him soil himself if he as much as moved funny. He knew he was alive – the churches had always insisted that the afterlife didn't entail this much agony of the earthly kind – but his thoughts seemed a lot slower than usual, and he wondered, blearily, if what had happened had been a dream of some sort.

"Oh good, you're awake," a voice drifted from somewhere above his head. "For a minute there, I was worried that you wouldn't."

In valiant defiance against the nausea, he managed to turn, and found the blurred image of someone sitting there. The image sharpened, and he recognized the Shiva rogue in his parka – the one he had been sent here with the others to capture. Usually so elusive and wily, the target now looked significantly weakened, as though the very idea of standing itself would sap what little strength he had further. He tried to get up, to reach for the rogue while the opportunity was in his hands.

That was when he realized they were not moving. Through the pain they continued to tingle, but his hands refused to obey his silent commands. And then one of his dislocated shoulders scraped against the ground, and the wave of nausea hit him again with renewed vengeance.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, _Jonbar_," the rogue suggested. "I'd hate to have you pass out again before we finished talking."

"… How…?" his voice sounded gravelly to his ears, and his throat stung for him to speak anymore. "How did you…?"

"Deep Eyes officers have your 'friends' in custody as we speak," the rogue explained, apparently enjoying his moment of victory over the other. "They're all such good little henchmen. Not one of them would betray the Don… _yet_… but as for you," he paused to chuckle, "It looks like they hate you enough to have given up _your_ name right away."

"In custody"…? That meant they had failed. He shuddered at the looming sentence, and managed to ask, "So why am I still here?"

The rogue sighed, leaning back further against the shut door that was his support. "I guess I got too selfish. You and me, Jonbar, we go further back than the rest of your party. I want to deal with you personally."

He could only imagine what was in store for him now. As those thin hands reached forward, it took him everything he could to squirm out of reach. "You _animal_," he spat venomously. "Don't you dare touch me, you filthy lowlife-"

"_Do_ calm down, you conceited toad," the rogue tittered, "I'm not going to kill you. I won't even harm you. No…" he leaned forward, a malicious smile marring a usually cherubic face. "I'm going to heal you."

Before he could escape again, the rogue had him by the front of his shirt. He leaned closer still, his whispered words a dark hiss. "I'm going to restore you to full health, Jonbar, tender as a mother's touch. And then I'll wrap you up nice and pretty for when I gift you back to the Don. The only man in the whole team to cause their failure and arrest, and _then_ escape completely unharmed… I bet your master would _love_ to see your face again."

That was when he really started to shiver as the words sunk in. He had been spared the mercy of death, but was given a far worse fate to look forward to. "Just kill me," he whimpered, shaking so hard now that his feet were jelly. "If the Don gets his hands on me…"

"I know _exactly_ what he will do when it comes to failure," the soft voice answered. "It makes everything you put me through all the more worthwhile."

"You can't do this," he was begging, too frightened now for anymore bravado, "_You can't do this!_"

A hand was on his shoulder, gripping it with enough force to elicit another cry.

"Hold still, now," the rogue crooned. "You might feel a sting…"

Down the steps of the Benbow inn, Dr. Doppler nearly upset his cup of coffee as a bloodcurdling shriek tore through the air. Then he did spill the staining liquid all over the hardwood floor as a second equally agonized holler rang from behind the wooden barrier of the room the rogue had shut himself in. What followed after that was a series of unholy noises comprised of undignified whimpers, cries for mercy and the distinct sound of someone retching.

"… Good heavens," he could only comment. The dignified scholar pondered for a moment if he should perhaps find a rag for the mess when he heard the creak of the door swinging open. In a second, the rogue stumbled more than he walked out. Setting aside the spilt coffee as second priority, he ascended the stairs to meet the exhausted rogue halfway. "Ah, there you are. All done with that unsightly business of yours, I hope-? Whoops! Steady now!"

The rogue blinked sleepily, not even fully aware that he had tripped on the step, as he hung heavily from Dr. Doppler's outstretched arm. Too tired for dignity, he laughed at the amusement he found instead in his situation. "Nice save, doc."

Dr. Doppler shook his head and tutted as he hefted the rogue upright again. "I don't know anything about you 'guards' or whatever you call yourselves, young man, but I _do_ know _you_ need to be resting."

"Jus' five more minutes," he mumbled playfully, but he allowed himself to be guided down the stairs and to the nearest table as he started to ramble. "I smell coffee. Is there coffee? I'd love coffee. I see coffee on the floor. Can I have it?"

The scientist looked ready to argue, but gave up and retreated toward the kitchen. He did not make it there when the door opened and Mrs. Hawkins stepped out with a tray of mugs, each filled to the brim with freshly brewed hot mulled cider. She paused first to pass Dr. Doppler a mug before setting another in the rogue's hand. He hummed contentedly and lifted it up to take in the warm aroma of cinnamon.

"Permission to marry you, ma'am," he muttered blissfully, earning a knowing laugh from the matronly innkeeper.

"Again no, but thanks for the compliment," she answered. "There's another one here to see you, but with the state you're in I'm thinking of turning her away."

He rubbed his eyes and set his mug down again before he clarified: "… 'Her', you say? I don't get many female clients. What does she look like?"

"See for yourself."

He glanced up at the new voice, and watched as a tall, elegant lady approached. Her glossy black hair was secured in an aristocratic bun, and an interesting silver pendant graced her neck. The gown she wore seemed far too posh for anyone in a fishing port, a sure sign as any that she had come a long way. Meeting those bright doe eyes managed to revive him enough to remember his words:

"I fear I love thee more than I should."

She smiled and nodded, and to his words she replied, "No life is more insincere than that lived as a masquerade."

It was his turn to smile. He took a careful sip of the mulled cider before setting it aside and rising to his feet. "Ah, but the night is young yet to prove just how sincere I can be. Might I interest milady in a quiet night out on the docks?"

She took his offered hand, but she led him away from the main doors. "I like it better in here."

"As milady commands, so I shall do," he answered softly. "The back room is ours for as long as you wish."

They departed quietly, hand in hand, until they reached the room. It was sparsely decorated, with just a bed and a small dresser to one side, and a coat hanger to the other. Once the door shut behind them, the rogue drew his hood back fully to meet her face to face.

"Ms. Lockhart," he greeted at last, the pretences dropped, "you are more stunning a woman than I have ever portrayed."

Tifa scoffed, already discarding the upper-crust act for her usual self. "Enough expository banter. Let's get down to business."

He chuckled at that, tugging the parka off his frame and slipping it onto the hanger. "I'm too tired to argue that point. First things first, then…" Beckoning her to follow, he knelt down and reached under his bed to pull out a briefcase. This he presented to her. "This is for you."

"I understood you were handing me a sniper rifle."

"This would be it," he replied. "Silver's no gunsmith, but that old cyborg does know a thing or two about rifle assembly. I understand piecing it back together again is simple enough with the right know-how."

"I see. Thank you." – She took the case from him, hefting it easily with one arm. – "Now sit down before you fall over."

"Thank _you_." And with that, he plopped down on the top of his bed with a tired groan. "Care to join me?"

"Not in this dress. You mentioned Don Corneo in your message – what can you tell me now?"

"He's the one using the Curse Bangles," he answered. "I wasn't so sure back then with Lord Palmer in the equation, but now I can confirm it's him."

"And where is it?"

"I gave it to your agent – best reminder of what to look out for as long as he's getting chased."

Tifa paused. She dropped the case to the carpet again before looking hard at the rogue. "What do you mean, he's getting chased?"

"He offended Don Corneo," the rogue explained with a shrug. "And the Don's not the forgiving type. The word gets around among enough sailors, and he'll know who to go after pretty quickly."

Murmuring her agreement, Tifa asked a different question: "Any idea where he's headed?"

"He _did_ take the shuttle service, and there's only one route he can go with _that_," the rogue answered. "Honestly, he's not that hard to follow."

"No, he isn't," she admitted, her fingers reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she mulled over the problem at hand. Then, recalling the current state of the informant, she returned her attention to him. "Thank you for telling me this. I understand you were supposed to be off the list by now."

"I don't have that choice anymore," he muttered back bitterly while scratching at the back of his neck to stay awake. "Unless your people help me, I'm free fodder. That goes for whoever I'm affiliated with, too."

"… Like the Benbow innkeeper."

"She's always taken care of me," he confessed. "The least I can do is look out for her… _and_ this place. She loves this place, y'know… Wants someplace for her son to come home to…"

Tifa crossed the distance between them and laid a hand on his shoulder to keep him somewhat anchored for a little longer. "I understand," she interrupted his ramble, "Don't worry. We'll do our best."

"_Not_ your best," he grumbled back, already losing the battle against sleep and steadily succumbing with each passing second. "Do what's _right_."

And then he was out like a light, falling into a deep slumber as he finally allowed his exhausted body to replenish the energy it so desperately needed. Alone with her thoughts, Tifa went back to mulling over the presented situation.

_Cloud, you idiot…_ she mentally berated the blond. _What a fine mess this is turning out to be…_

Sighing deeply, she retrieved the briefcase from the floor and gave the sleeping rogue one final glance.

"I don't suppose you'd have a phone I could borrow…?"

* * *

Back in Radiant Garden, the once secretive building housing Organization XIII had opened its doors… though perhaps, marginally so. Although citizens were allowed in, they were only the patrons, the benefactors, and anyone with enough money, status, or influence in the senate to be presently invited into the ballroom. At risk of exaggeration, it was an event for the aristocrats.

"Gentlemen," the Superior spoke to three of his guests, "I would like to introduce you to young Roxas, one of my finest Key agents."

And as had become habitual, Roxas managed a thin smile as he bowed his head in formal greeting. He was not really required to speak, only having to stand there and look sharp as his boss showed him off like a trophy. His initial reasoning was that his youth had something to do with it. Being both the youngest Key agent _and_ the youngest member to join the Council, his existence was a shining example of the amount of talent and potential within the organization's membership, and his presence drove that point home.

But he wasn't a newbie anymore. Neither was he as innocent and "adorably lost" as some of the patrons' wives had called him. He had stopped being the wide-eyed boy who was half drowning in his too-big penguin suit as much as the crowd he was just too short to navigate through. Finally growing into the body of a young adult, he held the same confidence of any man in his position if not more, and he carried himself with the distinguished airs of one much older. And now he was old enough to know that the Superior did not really _need_ him there as a playing card.

For a reason he could not guess, the Superior just _wanted_ him there. It could be an honor as much as a subtle warning about his place within the Council and the Organization. It could be a gesture of trust as much as an extra measure to keep him within sight. Whatever it was, Roxas never did figure it out. Since it didn't really hurt to, he just kept playing along.

As of now, he was bored out of his mind. Just barely managing to step out of the ongoing conversation's shadow, he slipped through the upper crust while sparing only enough time to bow, greet and answer politely whenever spoken to by the guests. It took him a little while longer of that before he found the one he was looking for, sprawled quite messily over an ornamented chair with a fair lady balanced on either knee.

"Hyne's _hips_, Axel," the young blond cursed irritably. "Can't I leave you alone for…" – he paused to check his watch – "… twenty minutes before you start chasing skirts _again_?"

Not the least bit sorry, Axel merely threw his hands skyward in mock surrender. Somehow, without the extra support, both girls maintained their balance. "Come on, man, let me live a little…! _They_ don't mind."

"You're not here to 'live a little'," Roxas reminded curtly, ignoring the giggles from the two he now identified as a senator's nieces. "You're here to make a lasting impression. So smarten up before someone influential decides to take notice of you."

The Guardian snorted openly. "Lighten up, will you? This isn't graduation or a trial in court. It's just some high-class tea party sharing a buffet table with the Draco family reunion."

As though to make the point, a group of pre-teen Bahamut trainees passed by while happily exchanging strategies and hack codes for their respective video games. In fact, littered throughout the ballroom amidst the formal dinner jackets and classy evening gowns were the smart purple uniforms of the sentinels, each and every one that was still serving Organization XIII. Apart from Axel, they were the only ones who seemed genuinely comfortable enough to enjoy the evening as they pleased. No one gave them so much as a second glance.

"Either way," Roxas attempted a different approach. "Rein in your flaming Spirit and break this up before their uncle misses them. Patron Ansem needs to speak on our behalf next week before the senate, and anything like this won't help our cause at all."

"Fine, fine, be all jealous and ruin my fun…" Axel grumbled, still showing reluctance to let his new "friends" go just yet, "… by the way, your Gramps' been wanting a word with you for a while now."

"Oh… Really?" Roxas suddenly found the redhead's behavior a little less insulting as he turned and headed straight for the bar.

There stood the grizzled bartender, a mountain of a man in his height and size. His sentinel uniform seemed a little tight for his muscular bulk, but nevertheless he carried the look well not as a pompous gentleman but as an experienced veteran. The long scar running down the left side of his face made others see him as frighteningly powerful. The gray smattering of stubble on his chin and his disgruntling demotion from soldier to server reminded them that he was still mortal, still as vulnerable to age as the next man.

"Ward," Roxas addressed the surly bartender now, earning the barest softening of those hard eyes in his direction. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

The old sentinel nodded, immediately pulling out a telephone from behind the counter before extending the off-hook handset toward the young blond. Puzzled, Roxas took it and held it to his ear.

"… Hello?"

"**It's about time!**" the voice on the other end cried out in exasperation. "**I mean, no offense sir, but do you have any idea how expensive this call is going to **_**get**_**?!**"

"… Lockhart?" Roxas identified. His eyes darting about to room for any possible eavesdroppers, he finally sat down and pressed the handset closer to his head. "What is this about?"

In the time that passed after, Tifa explained everything to the best of her ability. Roxas listened gravely as she detailed her talk with the informant, mentally taking notes for his inevitable search through the archives at a later time. Then she went from the bad news to the worse news…

"… I agree," he replied. "It was too much to hope for that Strife might have more experience in undercover work – I keep forgetting that _Leon_ was the trained assassin first before… no, never mind that. It's not important. What matters now is that we take action while we still can. If he doesn't change course soon, _someone_ will be catching up to him, and I hope to Hyne it isn't the Don."

"**What do you want me to do?**"

"Your first priority will be to move Ghost to another location," he answered. "He will work under you for now, until we can arrange for something more permanent. Then I want you to return to your primary safe house – I expect Strife will try to contact you again as soon as he can, and I want you there to help him. In the meantime, I'll have somebody intercept Strife at his next stop."

"**How will you do that, sir? You **_**were**_** the one who wanted him to keep this as non-Org as possible. Send in the wrong messenger and you just might blow his cover for him.**"

"I'll think of something," he promised. "Anyway, I'll pay for this call. Just focus on staying alive. And keep an eye on the rogue – he may be on our side, but we don't know his true motives… Yes, call me again if you find out anything else."

Then the call ended. Returning the handset to its switchhook, he watched as the telephone was in turn stashed back in its former hiding place.

"I need to ask a favor from you, Ward: can you not tell anyone about this?" A thick vein throbbed at Ward's neck as the mute giant laughed without making a sound. With surprising gentleness, a huge hand patted Roxas' shoulder, urging him back into the crowd. The Key agent relaxed, smiling gratefully at this man who had become the grandfather he never had. "Thank you, sir. I'll come by again later."

As soon as he reentered the crowd, he made a point to walk by his Guardian partner one more time – "Axel, I mean it. Take your hands off them," – before seeking out the other person he had in mind. To his frustration, he could not seem to find the latter anywhere. Finally, he tried an alternate route.

Sharing a bottle between them over a rock-paper-scissors marathon, Biggs and Gippal halted their current match as they spotted Roxas' approach. Gippal greeted him first while Biggs seized the chance to steal a few gulps of whiskey. "Hey, Roxas. What's up?"

"Have either of you seen Deus around?"

"Yeah, he's right over there." The one-eyed sentinel leaned back to point at the main entrance, where a tall and imposing character in a well-decorated jacket was just stepping in. "What do you need that hotshot for?"

"There's a certain Bahamut rogue I have to find," Roxas answered, his eyes already trained on the Guardian now being stalled by every other guest, "but he was only an informant during my predecessor's time, and now no one can really say where he is, or if he will even hear my request."

"Oh, that all…?" Biggs butted in, still clutching the nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand. "Nothin' to worry 'bout, then. The hardest part'll be findin' the guy, but Deus can find anyone. Gettin' his help'll be a _cakewalk_."

"Bahamuts are family," Gippal agreed, "and family helps each other, no matter what."

"I know that," Roxas answered carefully. "I just don't know if Deus will help me with this."

"Sure he'll," Biggs cut in again. "Yer family, ain't ya?"

"I'm not a Bahamut," the young blond pointed out.

"Never said ya were," the scrawny sentinel reasoned with a partially drunken grin. "But if Grandpa Ward says yer family, yer family."

"Better hurry though," Gippal suggested, "before he leaves again. Quick-fixes like him need to keep moving along or they overstay their welcome– Bleedin' _Minerva_, Biggs! You finished it _already_?!"

Leaving the pair to argue over whose right it was to the last of the bottle, Roxas made a beeline straight for where the sentinel Deus was. He caught the man just in time before he could beat a retreat.

"Mr. Machina," he called, grabbing the Guardian's attention, "I need to talk to you…"

* * *

"Can't this thing go any faster?"

Just as he had been doing for the past few hours since they swapped seats, Leon chose to ignore the complaints from the passenger seat while he focused on the snow-covered trail ahead. Next to him, Cloud was as grumpy as ever, glaring at the new world of white they had crossed over to as though it had offended him greatly.

"You know, I had actually forgotten how much I hate freezing my ass off, and I was _happy_," Cloud muttered irritably, his fingers fidgeting on his knee. "… Why aren't we there yet? We're running late."

This time, Leon decided it reasonable to look away long enough to level his partner with a hard stare.

"… No, you didn't lose your memory again, there are no appointments," Cloud admitted grudgingly. "What I meant was the amount of fuel I figured for the trip. The longer we take, the more we use, and there's no way in butt-frozen hell that I'm paying for a lost car or pushing this thing to Modeoheim. Hyne, I _still_ remember the last time that happened, the stupid gas guzzler fell down some giant rabbit hole…" he paused in his rant long enough to be thoughtful, "… I wonder if they ever found it…"

Quite suddenly, the car hit a bump of snow-covered debris in the path, prompting Leon to return his attention to the way ahead. Cloud turned in his seat, looking over the three passengers taking up the bench seat in the back. Reclining against one another, Sora, Riku and Kairi remained deep in slumber and unaffected by the earlier jolt.

"They're still not up yet," Cloud informed their designated driver. "Looks like all the violent excitement between Montressor Fishing Port and Traverse Town really wore them out." He paused to catch Sora's drooping head and carefully resituate it against the backrest. "I keep forgetting how young they are."

His ungloved hand lingered in the young teen's brown spikes, and he hesitantly ruffled hair when Sora murmured something unintelligible in his sleep. "How exactly we'll get them back to Organization XIII in one piece is beyond me. We're already lucky enough that informant decided to warn us when he did."

A soft growl rumbled from the Guardian's throat, and his eyes narrowed into a disdainful expression. Cloud removed his hand from Sora's hair and sat back, his own expression one of disapproval. "You're _still_ upset about that? _Nothing_ happened, and I don't even _like_ Shivas…!" The car suddenly lurched to a halt. "… Why are you stopping?"

Leon pointed ahead. Just within their line of vision was an abandoned power plant, mostly blanketed in thick snow from years of neglect. By the gate, a Replicon squawked at them before escaping further into the structure's depths. All in all, it appeared a dead end.

"We're close," Cloud affirmed, however, and pointed somewhere to the right. "See that tunnel? If we go through it, we'll reach the town on the other side."

The car lurched again as it took a sharp turn to the right, pushing through the snow toward the tunnel. Still, true to Cloud's words, they reemerged among more buildings, structures this time meant for settlement. Yet, it remained too quiet even here. Down the empty road, Leon finally pulled to a stop again outside the bathhouse at his partner's instruction. The agent opened his door and stepped out. As the Guardian followed his example, Cloud approached the entrance and rapped sharply at the door.

No one answered the knock, but Leon suddenly grunted softly. In response, Cloud smirked. "That's probably the landlord. If I remember it right and nothing has changed since, he'll be as mad and sneaky as ever… and, yes, that would be him lurking behind your right shoulder and grinning like a fool. Don't kill him."

"Much obliged," another voice purred from Leon's back.

The brunet rolled his eyes in resigned annoyance as a short little man walked around him to stand before them both. Under an old ragged coat, he was wearing faded pinstripe dress pants to contradict a faded polka dot vest over a faded floral shirt. One minute he was hunched and round, and in the next he was upright and taut, and through it all he grinned with his full set of teeth in an expression of glee without a reason. It was as though his personal mission in life was to either mildly confuse people or greatly offend them with his first impression.

After that eyeful, the funny little man at last opened the door and granted them access to its much warmer interior. Between the two partners, their three charges were carried inside to continue sleeping on the slightly more comfortable mattresses the host provided. And with their immediate wellbeing seen to, Cloud addressed the bathhouse's landlord a little more properly.

"It's good to see you again, Cheshire," he greeted, though neither felt inclined to shake hands. "How is Alice these days?"

Still sporting his grin, the man hummed merrily to himself before pulling out some chairs. "Of Sweet Miss Pleasance, you ask? Since our last meeting, she seemed to have some sort of unfinished business with a Carroll character. Something about tarts, or cards, or perhaps it was lard. I don't really know which the rich enjoy mostly. How long will you be staying this time?"

"Not very long," Cloud answered, taking one seat for himself and his partner another, "We're just stopping here for a night, and then we're headed for Icicle Lodge."

"There's an idea," Cheshire commented in his persistent merry way, "but it won't get you very far. Actually, it won't get you anywhere at all. Not with the Jabberwockies still roaming these parts. Would you like some tea?"

"No th-_what_ Jabberwockies?"

"Oh, you know – the jaws that bite and the claws that catch? One lump or two?" and without waiting for a response, three lumps of sugar splashed into a steaming cup, "They come and go as they like, but mostly come more than go. Nasty things, really…"

The agent grunted something irritable before he slumped forward wearily. "Jabberwockies…" he muttered, "There just _had_ to be Jabberwockies, too… Forget it. Anything new we should know about them?"

"Hmm… Not really," the odd host answered with a careless shrug, spilling drops of tea all over his table and the floor. "Jabberwockies are as Jabberwockies will be, my friend – strange to their brother Behemoths, and strangers among themselves."

"As expected of selective breeding and careless release from dangerously stupid scientists," Cloud added darkly, "and since they were raised by humans, they lose any natural fear of humans they _should_ have had. Are we expecting a pack? How big can we figure?"

"No pack," Cheshire gave a straight answer for once, "Just one at a time."

"… What do you mean?"

"It is like you said," – the host started to recite from an invisible script he pretended to hold up – "As they were raised by humans, they cannot make up their minds about humans. So they become _like_ humans, setting themselves apart by their own beliefs and disbeliefs, their own teachings and misgivings. They refuse to learn from one another, and despise each other because they refuse to understand." And with the raised cup of sugary tea, he concluded: "All loners, each and every one of them. Too much like humans."

"So the bad news is that their movements are unpredictable," Cloud in turn deduced, "but the good news is, since they can't get along, we can at least assume there's only one of them to worry about at present. Still it's a change in plans – if we want to keep the kids safe, it looks like we'll have to take the car with us after all. And we'll _also_ have to do something about that Jabberwocky."

"When you are human, do as the humans do," Cheshire suggested. Suddenly, his grin seemed that little bit more malicious than usual. "And what would a human like you do to a beast like that?"

"… You suggest we kill it," Cloud answered with a scoff, "but I know you won't advise how."

"I'm a madman, you know! Not a miracle worker!"

"Of _course_ you are mad," the blond answered morosely. "This madly vague scheme with an end and no beginning is impossible without some madness involved."

"And that is what makes it so easy," Cheshire replied amiably. "After all, all humans are quite mad."

"Are we, now?" Cloud challenged.

"Some more so than others," Cheshire answered easily. "But riddle me this, what truly sane man laughs when he is sad and smiles when he is angry? Which one of a fully sane mind goes about his life hating those who love him while loving objects incapable of such emotion?"

At a sudden loss for words, the agent stared blankly at his eccentric host before he could at last come up with something: "For some reason, that actually made a little sense. That can only mean two things – I'm drunk or high on something, or it's time to call it a night. We can talk more logical strategy in the morning."

"As you wish…"

The host reached out a scrawny forefinger and thumb to dim the lamp. As the light receded away, blackening out details and shapes from their surroundings, the mysterious, unreasonable grin on Cheshire's face seemed the very last to disappear into darkness.

And then, from within the darkness, "You couldn't wait until we found the sleeping area _before_ you did that?"

"And where is the fun in that?"

* * *

The next morning, Cloud woke to find their travelling group one member short. Rising at once, he counted off three still sleeping youngsters before attempting to fix his rumpled shirt to a more decent appearance. Just ahead, sitting at his stained table and enjoying a cup of coffee, Cheshire seemed quite content to stay there for a while. Besides the coffee pot were several breakfast items laid out for his guests. As eccentric as he was a person, Cloud admitted he was still a good host.

"And here you are," Cheshire greeted as merrily as he did the previous night, "although you don't look all that ready."

Remembering his disheveled state, Cloud instinctively picked at his shirt again. "Have you seen my, well… companion?"

"The brooding one, you mean? Quiet as a mouse, him, but he seemed to want to move your car," Cheshire answered in turn. "I handed him an ice axe on his way out."

Then, Cloud did notice the soft but precise "_chnk_, _chnk_" of a metallic tool assaulting ice and snow with method. Outside the windows, it was still too dark to make out much save the moving silhouette of the man and his thin tool. "If it helps him blow off some steam, I can't complain."

"Not used to this temperature, are you?" Cheshire commented. "The both of you seem a little on edge."

"Weather like this would be enough to drive anyone mad," Cloud muttered. "_You_'re a prime example of that." Then, in the aftermath of the odd man's amused chortling, a stray thought occurred to him: "Do the Jabberwockies enter the town?"

"A thought like that drove everyone else out," his host answered as indirectly as ever, "and yet I still live, relatively undisturbed and mostly unharmed."

"Not yet, then… huh…" Relaxing, he jabbed a thumb toward one of the corridors. "Mind if I grab a quick shower?"

"By all means, go ahead," Cheshire replied, already bored and pulling an outdated newspaper from a hidden compartment in his table. "I'd hate to have my facilities go to waste any longer."

"Thanks. How old are the conditioners?"

"Not just yet."

"That's comforting…"

On the other side of the glass barrier, Leon continued to carefully scrape snow off the windshield, chunk after thick white chunk. Barely getting it clear enough to see the front, he knelt down to take care of the doors as well. As the adze worked its way through the stubborn coat of ice, it suddenly slowed to a halt mid-stroke at the final door, loosened bits crumbling and falling away under it. Leon tilted his head back up, glaring out into the distance with a wary eye. Nothing seemed to move in the ominously empty town, and all that could be heard was the soft warbling of the wind.

The ice axe struck at the door a final time, harder than necessary, and more snow dropped off the handle in a messy pile. A long, low chime of metal against metal hummed through the air, filling the silence with at least _something_. Leon straightened, upright and ready, while continuing to hold his gaze with whatever had caught his attention. The wind was starting to pick up again, the snow obscuring his field of vision a little more.

As his eyes narrowed even further into predatory slits, a spark of silver fire started to burn from their depths.

* * *

Some time since water started running again, the once cold and still room had started to get warm and humid, an environment better suited to its role as a bathing facility. The door to the main corridor opened for a second time, and Sora slipped inside. Row after row of stalls greeted him, but their opaque curtains were not much help in his current endeavor.

"… Agent?" he called, earning a muffled sigh and response from a stall somewhere in the middle.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

There was a distinct squeaking as the water supply was cut off momentarily. When Sora got close enough, he thought he could smell what had to be slightly stale shampoo. The replacement noise for the area was that of careful scrubbing of suds through hair. The younger shifted his feet and cleared his throat nervously. "… I know this is a bad time, sir, but-"

"If it's that important to require an invasion of my privacy," Cloud cut him off, "then you can say it now and have it done with."

Another cap popped open, and more smells filled the heavy air within the immediate area. Still the boy held his tongue.

"… Well, Sora?" the agent asked more gently. "What is it?"

"… I…" Sora paused to take a calming breath despite the humidity. "I've been thinking of leaving, agent, of just going back home."

The scrubbing stopped, and then started again at a more hurried pace. Then another squeak sounded, and water was running again. Just as quickly, it stopped. No more sound followed after that; nothing between them but their individual breathing and the occasional dripping of water off a wet body. Sora could just feel the questioning gaze that cut through the vinyl barrier between them. And yet Cloud didn't move, waiting for the boy to explain himself.

"I meant what I said back then, sir. I want to find my truth. You said yourself to think of this as some sort of road trip, and I was okay with that, but… but then, after that incident at Montressor… I wasn't sure what to expect anymore. One minute we were there, getting shot at by people out to kill us, then the next we were in Traverse Town, getting shot at by people not even aiming at us! I swear I've never been shot at that much in my life! I had never even been shot at _before_…!"

Turning away and instead staring down at the faucet, Cloud mentally cursed at how these events had unfolded. He could understand the stress riding on those younger shoulders, to suddenly leave the comfort of a peaceful and safe environment to be tossed headfirst into a messy gunfight. At least, when that happened to him, he had been undergoing training with Organization XIII and was more or less prepared for it. Sora did not get that same privilege.

"_None_ of us have," Sora suddenly continued, suggesting that there was more to this than the agent had previously thought. "Yes I'm scared, but at least I know you'll do everything you can to keep me alive. I can't say the same for my friends, can I? I may be scared for my own life, but I… I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to Riku or Kairi. I could never forgive myself if they got hurt or… or died because of me."

_Because they decided to risk everything by following you to whatever fate is waiting,_ Cloud finished in his head. Snatching up the towel from the overhead rack, he rubbed himself down briefly until he at least stopped dripping water everywhere. The towel found its way around his waist, and only then did he draw the curtain back to look down at the waiting boy. Beholding the sight of the damp, near-naked man with his usually spiky hair now drooping from the added weight of moisture, Sora flushed awkwardly.

"You've been thinking about this," Cloud spoke suddenly, his voice low and tense. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"I didn't get the chance to!" Sora scrambled to explain, his eyes darting around as he tried to look everywhere except at the agent. "I mean, I _was_ going to say something at the station, but then you said you'd train us, and Riku seemed pretty excited about that, and… well… I…"

"You didn't talk to them about this either," Cloud realized. The boy's guilty look confirmed as much. "So you think the way to solve everything is to leave."

"If they won't go back without me, I'll have to go back with them," Sora answered. "It's the only way I can think of to get them out of this before something worse happens."

"You're afraid of losing your closest friends. That, I can understand," the agent replied. "But you have to realize that you will lose them eventually, one way or another. If you can't accept loss, you can't live."

"But not like _this_!" Sora protested. "Don't you _get it_?! I wanted to find the truth about myself, not live my life in fear of getting a bullet through the head, mine or Riku's or Kairi's! I don't even know for sure if I'll find this truth where I'm going! Don't ask me to risk their lives when I don't even know if I'm going the right way…!"

"And what makes you think turning around and retreating is?" Cloud countered, feeling his irritation rise within him, "No one knows if they are going the right way until they reach a dead end, and until they hit that point they won't know if everything that happened along the way was worth it."

"So you're telling me to not care about them?"

"This is _not_ about _them_, kid. This is about _you_," the agent snapped, closer than ever to losing his temper. "This is about the choice you made and living with it. If you quit for any reason, thinking there is always next time, what happens when there isn't one? If you keep going, it's always a 'maybe', that you _might_ lose them. If you give up, though, then you have definitely lost your chance at whatever you aimed for in the first place. No way of getting _that_ back."

For a while, nothing more was said between them. Cloud stepped around Sora to cross the room, swung open one of the lockers for his still rumpled attire, and made a point to shake each article of clothing out before slipping them back on. Sora in turn waited until Cloud at least had his pants on before turning around to watch his back.

"… You told me," He reminded softly, "that if I wasn't happy, I get to say 'no' and go home. Was that a lie?"

Cloud did not seem to hear him, instead focused on smoothening out a few of the more stubborn wrinkles his shirt before he could put it on. But in the end, he did give his answer: "… No, it wasn't." – The shirt remained in his loose fist, the added wrinkles ignored – "Is this what you really want?"

When Sora did not give his immediate reply, the agent chanced a glance back at the teenager, reading the hesitation and uncertainty all over the other's face. He sighed deeply and swung the shirt over his shoulder before straightening.

"There won't be any means of transport that can get you home until our next stop after Icicle Lodge," he pointed out. "If you're going to think this through a little more calmly, you'll need some hot food, a hot bath, and enough time. Whatever you decide then, I'll respect it."

Before anything else could be said, a sudden low growl rumbled right on cue. Sora was flushing anew with his embarrassment, but Cloud was remembering again that he was not dealing with a nameless client. He was dealing with a boy; an innocent, sentimental kid whose only true problem was that he cared too much.

Finally, he turned fully, seeing that boy eye to eye. "I can't promise you that a few gunfights like these will be the end or even the worst of our troubles, and there's still quite a length of road ahead of us on this journey. What I can promise is to do everything in my power to teach each of you how to keep yourselves safe, with or without us there to watch over you.

"Now, go get something to eat." And he stepped back to let Sora pass him to reach the door first. "If there is anything else to talk about, we can do that later."

Sora continued to hesitate, thought perhaps he should apologize, but he could not think what he would be apologizing for, exactly. At last, at the agent's reluctant but encouraging tap to his shoulder, he accepted the offer and went on ahead, returning Cloud his privacy to get the last two articles of clothing on. By the time Cloud followed him down the corridor, fully dressed, the adolescent was seated with his companions before the hearty breakfast their host had laid out for them.

Cloud looked around the room, and then finally addressed Cheshire again. "Has he come in yet?"

"Not yet," Cheshire replied, the well-browsed newspaper now positioned upside down, "Must be a lot of snow on your car."

"I was in the facility all morning. He can't _still_ be…" – Cloud crossed the room and wiped the condensation from the window to reveal the car again – "… He's not there."

A resounding bellow rattled the glass panels before an equally deafening crash shattered the peace of earlier. When the agent looked again, part of a house was gone just a little further up the street. There was only one thing to his knowledge that could cause such destruction within so short a period of time: the Jabberwocky.

_Where's a good vorpal sword when you need one…?_

Regardless, Cloud knew he needed his guns… the guns which had been conveniently locked in the trunk of the car still sitting outside. All he had on him at the moment was his carbine, which he had cleaned out following the Fishing Port incident. Biting back a curse, he wrenched the door open.

"You three – stay inside!" he barked before ducking out into the winter chill. He had barely even come close to the damaged building before someone landed roughly in a spray of snow a short distance from him. Looking battered but no worse for wear, Leon rolled back onto his feet while distractedly swatting snow off his shoulders. Without a glance at his partner, the Guardian snarled and strode forward again. Cloud started to follow.

And then the ice pick struck the ground between the agent's legs, abandoned there as its previous wielder ran off. Upon closer inspection, Cloud found the pick side of the head to be red with fresh blood. Another bellow boomed through the once quite town, and the old buildings seemed to shudder in its wake. Remembering his priority, the agent ripped the ice axe from its firm lodging in the snow. Swinging it easily in one hand, he swiftly jogged back toward the car, ran around it and then brought the head down.

With a solid "whack", the snow fell from the latch. All that was left afterward was for Cloud to grab hold and yank upward, and the rest of the trunk's lid came free; sitting innocently there in the trunk's frost-free depths was the carrier case of firepower that he needed. By the time he looked up again – this time more decently equipped for the job – he could see the huge beast approaching.

It looked scarcely different from the Behemoths it had been bred from; there was the same billowing red mane, the long, deadly bovine horns, and the incredibly foul temper. What set it apart from its wild cousins was the vulgar display of tattoos that were splashed over its chest, back, shoulders and hindquarters. Only one yellow eye was visible, the other lost in a steady stream of blood from an open wound in its head, setting it in an even worse mood than ever.

And perched atop its neck and trying to squeeze the life out of it was Leon. Given a different circumstance involving a less savage quadruped and something more equine in nature, it would perhaps have been comical. Cloud had little time to dwell on the situation before a large clawed paw slashed toward him. Instead, he raised his weapon to his shoulder and opened fire.

With a foot full of buckshot, the Jabberwocky reared up as it howled in pain. When it came back down on all fours – or all threes, now – it seemed angrier than ever, its head swiveling about madly as it tried to home in on the source of its new agony. Hefting the ice axe, the agent flung it through the air. Leon spotted it coming right at him, straight and true, and quickly yanked hard enough to pull the thick purple neck back while getting his leg out of the way.

The axe drove midway into the side of the fleshy neck spike-first, the damage it did evident in the Jabberwocky's gurgling. It staggered and swayed, nearly stepping on and crushing a porch before Cloud opened fire twice more to deter it; instead, its madly swinging tail sliced clean through a different building to its rear. Weakening, struggling to breathe, the wounded beast could do little in retaliation as Leon seized the axe again and pulled it free. The blood-soaked weapon was raised high and fell one final time.

Already on its last legs, the mighty beast did not give more than a final pained gurgle as it fell, bringing one more building down with it in its wake. The Guardian slid off its head and landed in the newly made nest of snow and debris, where he sat and panted with his back pressed against coarse purple fur. Lowering the still-smoking shotgun, Cloud slowly came forward. At first Leon did not move, his eyes remaining closed and his brows furrowed in restlessness.

Then Cloud got close enough, and Leon opened his eyes to stare at him. Glowing silver light flared without any sign of dimming, and a low growl rumbled deep in the Guardian's throat as he defended his kill.

"This isn't a bird, you know," the agent retorted, still getting closer, "Give it a rest."

The Guardian growled deeper in protest. Sensing that his partner was no longer playing around, Cloud glared back at those shining orbs and stood his ground.

"Back off, _kitten_," he ordered sharply.

The silver fire continued to burn as the Griever stubbornly refused to submit. The other had refused his right to mate, and now he was refusing his right to claim a kill?

But Cloud's hand with the shotgun remained taut and ready. If the lion was going to have a temper tantrum, he was not doing it here – not where the ones he was supposed to protect were close enough to get involved. If it came down to that, he would do what he had to.

"I mean it, Griever," he insisted. "_Stand down_."

Slowly, reluctantly, the Griever gave in to his partner, the light fading bit by bit until there was only Leon again, blinking and shaking his head. This time, he showed no resistance when Cloud came close enough to squat beside him.

"So…" the agent asked carefully, "are you ready to talk like a civilized human being now?"

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Leon nodded.

"Good." And then Cloud brought up a fresh handful of loosely packed snow and whacked it over Leon's head. "_Just what the hell were you THINKING?!_"

And from the space just beyond the open bathhouse door, Sora, Riku and Kairi watched in stunned silence as the once tense atmosphere flopped limply on its side and never rose again. In the distance, Leon had gotten to his feet, Cloud had straightened, and the two were arguing. At least, they were arguing in a manner where Leon continued to say nothing while Cloud was liberal with his language. It was a display of facial expressions and body language like none of the three had yet to see before on the usually reserved Guardian.

As clueless as they were to what Leon was saying, Cloud did not seem to share in their trouble. And when Leon suddenly adopted an exasperated look and flung a hand back at the Behemoth carcass, the agent countered with an equally exasperated, "That's _no_ excuse!"

"You think we should do something?" Kairi asked carefully, but Riku shrugged.

"I would if I knew what was going on."

But neither were the ones to interfere. Instead, their host wound around the three of them and walked right up to the arguing pair and the beast they had brought down. Walking right between them, halting them with the power of confusion alone, he gleefully rubbed his hands together as he approached the dead Jabberwocky.

"Oh lovely!" he declared quite happily, "Fresh meat!"

Forgetting whatever it was they were arguing about, Leon raised a brow quizzically while Cloud responded with a verbal question. "Just what deranged army is going to eat _that_?"

Cheshire didn't answer, already circling the fallen monster without any visible sign of actually cutting it open. Resigned to never knowing, Cloud turned and retreated back to the bathhouse. If they planned to leave Modeoheim and get to Icicle Lodge at all – before another Jabberwocky showed itself – they would have to leave right away and as quickly as possible.

"Grab your things," he instructed the three teenagers. "We're out of here."

Wisely, none of them argued and were quick to obey. Once they had all piled in, Cloud manned the wheel and drove up to where Leon remained by the carcass, searching its body over until finally he found his revolver embedded by the bayonet within one of the deeper wounds. Staring unimpressed at the coat of blood, he paused to clean it in the snow.

"Hey lion," Cloud called after him impatiently, "get in the car."

With a dismissive huff, Leon clambered in beside him, and they were off again, down the debris-littered road.

"See you, Cheshire!" the blond called out again as an afterthought. The preoccupied man was too busy trying to pull his ice axe free to answer.

* * *

Icicle Lodge proved to be a much calmer place, with more reassurance of getting back on course than at Modeoheim. The only downside was its function as a resort, meaning everything that could not be regulated – such as the train fare – was ridiculously overpriced. Being unable to afford a room or a table due to their limited budget, the group moved instead to the station, where most of them would wait while Cloud returned the car to the area's rental branch.

He didn't comment when Sora decided to go with him, the boy slipping into the seat which seemed less fitting for his smaller stature than it had for Leon's. And when they were stuck in a line of tourists, granting them with a long wait on their hands, he only sat back and stared listlessly out the window.

"So," he started, "have you made your choice yet?"

"No," Sora admitted carefully, not looking at the agent either. "But… I did do some thinking, like you suggested. I thought about what you said earlier and…"

"What about it?" Cloud prompted.

"I remember you said you didn't know if you're going the right way yourself," the young brunet explained. "What I want to know is, what pushed you further down it. What makes it easier doing what you do when you don't know enough?"

"Will that help your decision?" Cloud turned just enough to look at Sora, and upon receiving a nod for the question, he huffed tiredly. He went back to looking away. "There's a bit of a story behind that, if you'll hear it."

Again he looked to the boy for confirmation, and again Sora nodded.

"I was just about your age, when I met this Fenrir on one of his missions." He paused, chuckling at the distant memory, before continuing. "He was the opposite of Leon, actually – loud, a little annoying at times, incredibly carefree… and maybe a little innocent. You see, he was the type to believe in heroes, in good people always triumphing over the big, bad 'something'. At that time when we just barely knew each other, I asked him pretty much the same question you just asked me.

"You have to understand, being a Guardian is a lot different from being an agent. You risk things in exchange for power: freedom, anonymity, mostly memories. And sometimes…" – Darker memories surfaced – "… sometimes, you lose even the right to be called and treated like a human being. I asked him if it was worth going through all that, when he would never know – maybe even forget – if the path he was taking was the right one."

At this point, Sora was listening intently, eager to know the outcome. Cloud pretended not to notice, but his lips curled slightly as he spoke again.

"He told me something I've never forgotten since: 'Any direction is better than none. Doesn't matter which way you go – as long as you walk far enough, you'll always end up somewhere, and on the way you will see things, and you will meet people. Sure, you'll regret some stuff, but there's always too much good in the experience that you can't wish none of it ever happened. When you give up, you just stop moving. You go nowhere. Time doesn't stop because you stop. Time moves on without you, leaves you behind. Nothing is more depressing than that.'

"After that day, when we parted ways again, I decided there and then that I would become an agent."

"Why's that?" Sora asked suddenly, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "I mean, why not a Guardian, like him?"

"Because I didn't want to be like him," Cloud answered. "I didn't want to be his carbon copy. I wanted to be able to fight by his side."

"… But you aren't," the boy realized. "… Can I ask what happened?"

This time, the agent didn't look his way. His hand wandered down to his holster, resting reverently over the carbine that was pressed against his leg.

"Given time," he replied at last, "things change."

Neither pursued the matter further. The line started moving again, finally reaching their turn, and soon after that the car was off their hands. Looking out back the way they had come from, Cloud adopted a thoughtful expression on his face before slipping off his jacket and dropping it over Sora's head.

"Don't say anything," he muttered, already walking back at a fast pace. "Just put it on."

The boy hurried after him, tugging the large jacket over his frame. When they were matching paces again, he wondered if he should say something. Nothing came to him; nothing that seemed appropriate after the agent's revelation. It had been a touchy subject, and to broach another too quickly did not seem a good idea. They spent the length of the trek in silence, Cloud coming to a stop just short of the station's front steps. From where they stood, they could see their travel companions.

"Talk to them," the agent said. "Let them know what's going on inside that head of yours." When Sora looked away, he insisted, "You owe them that much."

"… Can it wait?" Sora asked, "At least, until we get to the next stop?"

Cloud relented. "As long as you tell them. But first," – he surprised the boy as he grabbed the scruff of the jacket that was a little too big, – "give me this back."

Sora found his smaller body already starting to slip out of the large outer garment as Cloud pulled upward. "Sure, but what's the rush? Are you that cold?"

"_No_," the proud man insisted, "I just don't want to deal with Leon if he spots us."

"I didn't realize you were the type to get easily embarrassed," Sora cheekily pointed out, though muffled by the jacket still over his head.

"Don't push your luck, kid," Cloud grumbled back. With a final tug, it was off Sora at last and he went about tugging back onto his own frame.

"… Agent…?"

"What now?"

"When I make that choice, no matter which one it is," Sora hesitated, before finishing his question, "can you tell me your name?"

"Which one do you want?" Cloud asked in turn.

"Whichever one _you_ want me to know you by."

The agent stared down at the shorter youth, not entirely sure what to make of him. Finally, he sighed and waved him on to the station's doors.

"… We'll see."

* * *

_A/N: Folks, please continue to send me your Character Auditions. So far, I'm filling up spaces for the later part of the story, but not as many for what's current. I'm especially in need of bandit/bad guy/henchman types. Besides Don Corneo (and that guy will have plenty of henchies), there will be other villains to contend with. But in general, I'm not the picky type. So long as you follow the guidelines given with the template, I'll be able to work your character in.  
_


	15. Unfinished Business

_Good news! I'm not dead! What I am currently doing is working whatever spare time I still have into writing. It's slow going, plus I'm exhausted most days due to irregular hours at one of my ongoing jobs, but I assure everyone that Gunmetal is not discontinued, will not be discontinued, and will receive another update as soon as possible._

_Meantime, I thank everyone for their support and continued reading (despite my sudden silence). I only hope that the on-and-off working on the chapter has__n't cost me my touch... yet..._

Cesilie (c) marita helstrøm

* * *

He liked to think of himself as one who enjoyed the warm air and open plains under lots of sunshine; hence his decision that the climate in Olympia – as beautiful as the sanctuary turned tourist hub was – didn't truly suit him. It – or maybe even the overwhelmingly large population – felt a good enough reason for the state of restlessness that had come upon him ever since he settled here, which he could never seem to shake off.

But for a little while – just a little – his current state of dissatisfaction was not foremost on his mind. In the dim setting of an unlit room, a poorly curtained window grazing his knees with soft tints of yellow sunlight, he busied himself loading his guns. One bullet via thumb and finger at a time.

Sitting snugly within folds of cloth at his lap, the thin black handset crackled to life as impatiently as its speaker: "**So have you reviewed the descriptions I sent you yet?**"

"Sure," he answered softly, audible only to his intended recipient. Another bullet clicked into place.

"**And you won't make any mistakes?**"

"I may not be a man of many talents, but I have a mind like a steel trap," he assured the other in a slippery tone. "Helps keep my stories straight around the ladies each time I make my rounds." The speaker was momentarily silenced by the resultant indignation, leaving him some more peace to continue filling chambers. "Plus, spiky hair? Blue eyes? Blond coloration? Those may be nothing special individually, but as a combination are all too easy to notice in these parts."

"**The boss wants me to remind you,**" the speaker continued, "**that Don Corneo is coming close to selling his own mother to get his hands on that man. Time is of the essence.**"

He chuckled, uncaring and unconcerned. "The boss worries too much," he answered. "You can remind him for me who he's dealing with."

The fully loaded chambers snapped back into place, and he lifted the revolver to point out the window, in search of something to focus on. And then he found it.

"Tell the boss he can expect my success within the allocated time frame."

Through the cross-hairs and thin lenses, a vendor was holding up an apple and showing off the bluish purple hue of its skin. Round, plump, soft and juicy.

"After all," he drawled, his finger lingering on the trigger without the slightest bit of pressure, "there isn't a target that a three-headed dog can miss."

* * *

"No."

"Are you certain?"

Cloud continued to glare at the unnecessarily extravagant and awfully expensive powder blue silk shirt on its hangar. "I'm certain that neither of us intends to ever be seen with that thing in public."

The salesgirl behind the counter – her name tag reading "Cesilie" – pursed her lips uncertainly for a moment, before pleading her case again: "It's really quite comfortable, sir. And you mentioned your friend wears silver accessories, yes? This shade of blue would really bring that silver luster out."

"I don't want to bring it out," Cloud protested flatly. "I want to hide it as completely as humanly possible. Don't you have anything else?"

Reluctantly, Cesilie sighed and hung up the rejected shirt again. "I suppose I could pick out something of a more earthen tone…"

Already, the agent had stopped listening to her as his own eyes roamed over the limited choices offered to him and his wallet. In any other situation he would have appreciated the girl's enthusiasm, but now was not a matter of making Leon stand out; it was to make him invisible. Getting a change of clothes for himself had been easy enough back at Montressor, but silver eyes weren't exactly a common sight. Their bright color burned through tinted contact lenses, and sunglasses were of more harm than help in the dark. Perhaps if he could just find a decent hat…

Then his eyes landed on something that just might work. It wasn't a hat, but it was close enough. His finger shot out.

"That one."

The salesgirl looked up from her armful of shirts, and dropped all but one in a startled clatter. "But sir, that's-!" she protested in a steadily higher pitch. "That isn't-! That doesn't go with _anything_! It just covers up _everything_!"

"Perfect," Cloud decided with a nod. "I'll take it."

"But … I … uhm … right away, sir." Still holding the lone shirt in hand, Cesilie awkwardly stepped over the mess of pricey clothes at her feet to reach the selected article. "Still, it _may_ be a little too, uhm, _warm_ for it, where you're going."

She had a point, the agent conceded. He looked down at the shirt she held – at least this one was simple enough, and the material looked suitably thin. He pointed to it. "Then I'll take that one too."

"Very well, sir." At least somewhat appeased, the salesgirl hurried with his order.

The total cost of the clothing was barely within budget, and their bulk barely fit into the complimentary duffel bag Cesilie provided, but that seemed how things were for any sort of purchase while boarding this train. Unlike the shuttle they had taken before, the _Shinra Express MK93 II_ was a sturdy giant built and furnished like an ocean liner complete with coach class, business class, first class, sick bay, concession stand, lounge, game room, and yes – a clothing outlet. The only real problem was that most of the "recreation" was catered to those who could afford it; the agent had thus been forced to decide which source of comfort mattered more.

Finally making it from the first class floor to the coach class floor, Cloud remembered to knock before sliding the door aside. The near-sighted old gentleman they shared the cramped cabin with wasn't there, leaving Leon as the sole occupant with his feet up on the opposite seat, his back slouched, and his eyes watching lazily for nothing in particular through the blur of blending colors. It suddenly occurred to Cloud that he had not seen the other meditate for a long time; not since the imprinting process, he wagered. Losing control had apparently become one less thing to worry about; an entire weight lifted free from his shoulders – and it showed.

Dismissing those thoughts with a huff, Cloud slid the door shut behind him with as much noise as it had protested his entry. Leon didn't so much as flinch, and the agent's hands dug into the bag at once.

"Here," a black tank top landed over Leon's knees, "and here," a large brown cloak flopped over Leon's head to cover him completely. "Change."

For a while, the mound of cloth and Guardian did not move. Then, slowly, the top of the mound turned to "face" the agent. Cloud thought he could actually _hear_ the other blink deliberately.

"… You're welcome," Cloud finally prompted in a disgruntled manner.

"… Okay, then. Thanks for the tent," the mound of cloth replied. Part of it twitched in time with the sound of exaggerated sniffing. "Though I think the circus might still be in here."

"Just put it on," Cloud grumbled. Then, as an afterthought he added: "It's a lacerna, a lot like the chlamys the locals will be wearing but with an added hood. So the tourists who see you will think you're local, and the locals will think you're a tourist. Either way, it keeps you from getting noticed too quickly."

"Does this mean I have to ditch my jacket?"

The question had been callous enough, but Cloud thought he detected the slightest hint of attachment. His smirk remained unseen by the other as he shook the emptied duffel bag out. "Tifa would have my head if you did. Just put it in here and carry it with you."

The cloth shifted more drastically, gaining and losing lumps and bumps before Leon finally tugged the cloak from his head to buckle it in place at his shoulder. An off-white shirt and his jacket then found their way into the depths of the bag. The Griever pendant followed after a thoughtful pause, upon which the bag was drawn shut.

"How's the fit?" Cloud asked.

Leon shrugged, but a finger hooked into and tugged at the unfamiliar collar of cloth around his neck until it loosened to a more tolerable circumference. Only after did he settle down and attempt to get comfortable again, once more looking out the window. Outside, the blur of scenery was starting to slow and settle as the train arrived at the next station. Their station.

"They're taking a while," Leon offered, changing the subject and earning another grumble for the effort.

"Seriously," Cloud griped, checking for the time and then the view of the city they were pulling into. "How long can they possibly take to get half their total weight in bags of sugar?"

"You're the one who gave them the munny to do it."

The agent turned on his partner, glaring at the repeated accusation that he was going soft. "Did you want to sit with three hungry teenagers for the entirety of a five-hour ride? Because I didn't."

When Leon didn't say anything at first, his first assumption was that the man was silently gloating. Then he heard a highly familiar rumble that started to pick up volume through the too small cabin. No longer relaxed, Leon was sitting upright and had his eyes burning straight into something in the distance.

"… What?" Joining the other by the window, he squinted, trying to see what it was... The discovery was unimpressive, and he backed off again. "You've got to be kidding me … hey, don't you touch that window."

Leon's answer was to reach for the window with both hands and yank it open. A lack of shattered glass was the only sign of his lingering self-control. "I just want to take a closer look."

"If you're planning on jumping out, I remind you that you no longer have Vexen." This time going ignored again, Cloud groaned and reacquainted his face with his palm. "Just … leave the pigeon-rat alone, Leon."

Leon dropped his hands from the base of the window to the base of the sill, not once taking his eyes off his sighted target. Across the street, completely unaware, the tiny lone griffin of pigeon and rat union perched atop a Statue of Zeus replica continued its merry song and rump wagging. The growling persisted, perhaps even kicked up a notch. Cloud heard a creaking to his side, but did not bother to look up.

"For Hyne's sake, it's a _bird_. Let it go, already – it's not like you can get him all the way from over here–" a single loud "_**BANG!**_" nearly startled him out of his seat, and this time he not only looked up but turned on the other fully. "… _What_ did I _just_ _say_?"

"Got him."

And sure enough, the quadruped bird was gone without any significant damage to Zeus' scepter. The train, however, seemed to hold its non-existent breath for a dramatic moment of pause, and then the speaker opened up:

"**Err … attention all passengers: there was no damage to the train from that one gunshot. No one is holding up this train. No one is attempting to kill anyone else. Our systems confirm that no one is injured and/or dead. Please remain calm. Also, all passengers are reminded that while the right to bear arms is respected, the civilian use of them anytime while on board public transportation is prohibited by law and liable to jail and fines and possibly lawsuits. I repeat …**"

As the tinny voice of the train's captain continued to relay its message, the door slid open for the second time, just enough for Riku to pop his head in and ask: "Was that Leon?"

In answer, the brunet raised the barrel of his gun to his lips and callously blew the wisp of smoke from it, relaxed and utterly content. The boy snorted.

"Yeah, I thought so. Nice look, by the way."

"How did you guess it was him?" Cloud asked out of curiosity, to which Riku shrugged.

"Your guns are different – you usually like to use that carbine of yours, and it's quieter than Leon's revolver; I wouldn't have heard it all the way from the concession stand," he explained. Then he added with a smug look on his face: "_And_ I was looking out the window at the time and saw the pigeon-rat tumble off Zeus."

For half a second, Cloud seemed almost impressed – it was masked quickly save for the barest bit of recognition in his eyes. "… so there's some hope for at least one of you."

Riku's grin eased into an easier smirk before he slid the door aside fully, allowing himself and his two friends entry along with their bounty of crisps, pretzels, hotdogs and bottled water.

"What took you so long?"

"We were done within a couple of minutes, but Sora was asking every single server, sales assistant and every other member of the staff if they knew anyone called 'Hawkins' who owns that key he was given," Riku answered, already dumping the full sack of snacks on the table. "He's pretty intent on getting rid of it as soon as possible."

Cloud turned to the boy mentioned and fixed his gaze on him. "Really."

Sora ducked from it, one hand already stuffing the offending object back into his pocket while the other picked up a pretzel.

"So this is our stop, right?" Kairi asked, redirecting the agent's attention to her. "Will we get to stay a little longer this time?"

"There's still at least twenty minutes for the train to be cleared for docking, but yes – we'll be staying here in Olympia for a while until we continue moving on."

"Well, _finally_!" Riku declared with an air of exasperation. "I thought we'd _never_ get here!"

"It's only been five hours."

"Yeah well, it honestly felt more like a year," Riku quipped, pausing to inhale one of the hotdogs within a manner of seconds. Cloud stared long and hard at him, then gave up with a sigh.

"I don't care anymore," he followed up. "There have been far snarkier idiots who made it and lived long enough. That probably won't change."

Riku merely shrugged. "Cool."

"Eat up, all of you," the agent continued in a directive. "You'll be needing all the energy you can get with what I've got on your schedule."

All three of them paused mid-chew instead. Slowly, carefully, Sora swallowed and spoke up at last: "Uh … schedule?"

Cloud blinked passively and pushed the opened bag of crisps closer to him, his lips working wider for emphasis on his only word of answer: "_Eat_."

* * *

If anyone had felt the least bit sorry for the unfortunate pigeon-rat, the feeling was soon lost upon disembarking from the _Shinra Express MK93 II_ at the Olympia train station. At least a hundred of them were within immediate sight, all milling around and waiting to mooch off the more receptive tourists to the area. Several signs were in place, warning of fines for feeding the birds that – as the litter-strewn state of the ground suggested – mostly went ignored.

And the only population rivaling the pigeon-rat was that of the people. Already, the ones trying to get off were fighting against the wave of those trying to get on. Saved by the raised platform he stood on, the weary conductor waved his arm in a robotic fashion as he hustled the human traffic along. Regardless, Sora somehow managed to edge through the two opposing forces to approach him.

"Excuse me! Sir?"

"Keep it moving, folks! Keep it moving!"

"Excuse me!" Sora tried again.

"Keep it moving! Yeah, what is it?"

"Do you know anyone called Hawkins?"

"Sorry, no. Hey lady! Either get on the train or get out of the way! Thank you! Keep it moving!"

Unwilling to give up so easily, Sora held up the key again. "Do you at least know what this is-"

"Sorry buddy, no!" the conductor snapped back impatiently. Then suddenly one of the waves was cleared, and he hollered out, "_All-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l __abo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ard__!_"

In the time it took Sora to blink the conductor was gone, the door was sliding shut, and the train bellowed back to life as it prepared to leave. With the train gone, the noise and people alike seemed to retreat to a less aggressive level.

"It's never that easy, kid," Cloud spoke up from the side. Then he waved him forward. "Don't fall behind – it's a big city, and I'd rather have you where I can see you."

Stuffing the key back in his pocket, Sora hurried after the group out the station and into the streets of Olympia's marketplace. Immediately after leaving shelter, he noticed once again the difference in temperature. The air was crisper and cooler than in Destiny Islands and Montressor, but a definite improvement from Modeoheim. He needed a moment to adjust, and when he finally noticed the city his eyes slowly widened in awe.

No matter which way he looked, there were people – way more people than in the Icicle Lodge. There were tall statues and sparkling fountains. There were thundering vehicles – some modern, some not so much – sharing the same space as the bustling pedestrians; yet unable to holler any louder for their right of way. And every two steps he took, someone tried shoving their merchandise in his face.

"We're not buying anything," the agent informed them flatly, his hand up and palm out to reject more eager vendors from approaching. "We're heading straight for the Prometheus Academy to see Philoctetes. Whatever you break along the way you'll have to pay for, so look but don't touch."

But the shine of a new blade singing against a grinding stone was something Sora just had to stop and look at. Each glide was smooth and screeched in his ears, but the blacksmith did not so much as glance his way as he continued to sharpen what turned out to be a long, thin claw.

Finally, after wiping his sweaty brow on a hairy arm, the blacksmith took the claw and slotted it into a gauntlet. The gauntlet was in turn fitted over his hand and forearm, and he carefully flexed against its material. Then his eyes and a disgruntled glare homed in on the watching boy, and then the man squeezed his hand in a tight fist. Three gleaming claws promptly popped into view with a subtle "_snikt_".

"Keep walking, bub," he suggested gruffly.

Sora swallowed nervously and hastened to heed his advice, but when he looked up and over the crowd he couldn't see his traveling group anywhere. In a panic, he started to run, his head darting every way in hopes of catching just a stray glimpse of them. It didn't take him long before he collided into someone.

"Sorry!" he yelped. Surprisingly the other only chuckled.

"Slow down, fella. Where's the fire?"

When Sora looked up to an eyeful of brown cloak, his first hopeful assumption was Leon. Then he looked further; and found a man of a different sort of height and standing posture, with long auburn hair secured in a loose ponytail and a pair of warm dark blue eyes twinkling under the brim of his floppy sun hat. Despite the local shepherd's attire, he carried himself like a cowboy better suited to the likes of Traverse Town.

"Looking a little lost there, son," the man drawled. "First time in Olympia?"

"Yeah, I …" Sora needed a moment to recall the name properly. "I need to find the Prom … me … uhm …"

"The Prometheus Academy?" the man suggested.

This time the boy nodded eagerly. "Yeah! That's right! Could you point me there?"

"I'll do you one better, son – I'll _take_ you there." With a smile and a tip of the hat, the man finally introduced himself: "Call me Irvine."

Relaxing enough to grin back, the youth accepted the offer to shake hands. "I'm Sora."

"Pleasure to meet you." With a beckoning wave of his hand, the two started walking through the crowd again. "If you don't mind me saying so, Sora, you're a little young to be on the road by yourself."

"Oh, I'm not – by myself, I mean. I just, uh … well …" the hasty answer trailed off as Sora ducked his head sheepishly. "I got separated from my traveling group about a few minutes ago."

"That so? Well then, maybe you could tell me what they look like and I'll keep an eye out. Mind you, I got me eyes like a hawk."

Irvine seemed sincere in his intention to help, and it encouraged the boy to trust him. And so he granted him that information.

"The leader is a blond man, and he keeps his hair in spikes – sort of like mine." His fingers instinctively tugged at one of said spikes as he explained. "And he has blue eyes, also like mine."

And then, even if he guessed he was imagining it, the warmth in those navy orbs froze for maybe half a second. Just half, but he still saw it. Then, as carefully as though rehearsed, the warmth returned to them when Irvine looked back at him.

"Is he related?" he guessed lightly. This time Sora shook his head.

"Just coincidence," he answered simply, earning a thoughtful hum in response. "Do you … know him?"

"… Well, I've _heard_ of him," Irvine conceded with a callous shrug. "I'm a bit of a traveler myself, and there's been plenty of talk on the roads. Your friend has quite a reputation, and an infamous one at that."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't know?" This time the man bowed his head. "Well then, I'll have to apologize to you. It's really not my place to say."

"But-"

They stopped walking – Irvine first and Sora second. Irvine's hand came up to his eye level, palm out. Then all but one finger curled into a loose fist, the lone finger wagging back and forth in a "tut-tut" motion: as gently as it was hinted, the matter was to be dropped without further question. With that same hand, he pointed out a building just within their line of sight.

"There it is: the Prometheus Academy." And with a final friendly pat to the boy's shoulder, Irvine took his leave. "It's been nice talking to you, Sora. Good luck."

The boy took a hesitant step forward toward the Academy, when he felt something in his pocket brush against him. A thought hit him at once and he turned, running after the man.

"Irvine! Wait!" And the moment he caught up he was digging into his pocket. "You said you're a traveler, right?" When Irvine nodded, he fished the object out. "Maybe you know what this is?"

His hunch hadn't been wrong; the man's eyes lit up in recognition at the key that came into view. With a soft whistle of appreciation, he asked: "Now where did you get your hands on that?"

"It belongs to someone called Hawkins," Sora explained eagerly. "I'm trying to find him."

"Ah." Irvine held out his hand in request, and the key was dropped upon his open palm. Drawing it closer for further inspection, he gave his answer: "I don't know the name 'Hawkins', but I'd recognize this design anywhere. It's the mark of Captain Jack Sparrow himself – all of his officers carry this."

With renewed hope, Sora felt an almost impatient rush stirring within him as he took the key back. "So if I find the Captain, I can find Hawkins?"

"It's not an absolute guarantee, but it's a pretty good chance as any," Irvine replied. "Seek out the _Black Pearl_ – that's where you'll find the old swashbuckler."

Nodding eagerly, Sora stashed the key once more and started to leave. "Thank you!"

"Before you run off," and halting the boy's steps, Irvine again closed the distance between them, his own hand searching out something in his pocket, "maybe you can do me a small favor in return…"

* * *

"Two words: I. Am. _Retired_!"

Cloud stared back completely unimpressed, maintaining a poker face. Meanwhile, Riku and Kairi shared a similar look of utter confusion while the boy counted on his fingers if only for show. It was only when Leon came back that the agent turned from the trainer to look his way.

"Did you find him?" When Leon shook his head, Cloud ground his teeth together to silence any number of curses he might have uttered. Instead he turned back to the trainer he had been speaking to. "Just this one class."

"Then get Oedipus to do it! I'm done!"

"Oedipus didn't see me _or_ Zack through our first Cups in the Coliseum, Phil. You did. These kids need their training to survive, and I don't trust anyone to get it right apart from you."

Halted by the unexpected compliments, Philoctetes grumbled aloud and rubbed his goatee vigorously as his mind worked. He looked up at the pair of agent and Guardian, then over at the pair of teenagers that had come in with them. Finally, he waved sharply for Cloud to lend him an ear. The agent had to drop down on one knee just to get close enough – neither really cared to notice.

"Okay, kid, seeing it's you … Truth is, ever since Herc made champion and got his name on a Cup, he's as good as retired himself. Now that he's a family man, he ain't interested in fighting all day anymore, and I ain't interested in training a new batch of disappointments, y'know? Herc was my one good shot and that's it."

"Except?" Cloud prompted, earning a sly grin from the older man.

"Heh, smart kid. _Except_ now it ain't been as exciting to watch the games without something to _really_ show for! All of 'em new guys ain't been as impressive, ain't a one good enough to be called 'Hero'. So here's what I'm thinking: for a scrawny kid, you were still pretty good last time. Maybe you could-"

The agent's expression darkened instantly. "No."

"C'mon!" Phil protested. "You give me some action in the games, and I'll train your kids for you. We both win outta this, so what's the problem?"

"Sora!"

Cloud turned away again, this time greeted by the sight of the previously missing boy running toward them. He let his breath go before he even realized how relieved he was. With a soft growl, he got to his feet again with a final grumbled word to Phil: "We'll talk later."

"Sure, sure, just think about what I said, eh?"

Waving his hand dismissively, Cloud made his way to where Sora was surrounded by the other members of their group. The boy had his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, though his action seemed more out of embarrassment than necessity.

"Sorry, I … I fell behind," the boy finally got out through his panting as he slowly straightened.

"You're alright, then?" the agent asked. At his left, Leon had a hand on the boy's shoulder as he looked him over for any signs of manhandling.

"I'm fine, really," Sora promised. "I ran into someone and he showed me the way here. Oh yeah," and then the boy produced something from his pocket, "he asked me to give this to you. He said you'd know what to do with it."

The moment his eyes landed on it, Cloud recognized it at once. His hand came out slowly, accepting the object as it was placed on his palm. He was still staring at it when he felt Leon's hand squeezing his shoulder, silently questioning. Regaining himself, he quickly closed his fingers over the offending thing – so quickly it hurt.

"You three stay here," he told his charges. Then, to Leon, "You're with me."

And then the pair walked away quite suddenly. Too suddenly for Phil to realize what was going on until it was too late.

"What are you doing? I'm a busy man! I don't have time to babysit! _Get back here!_ Don't ignore me, _HEY_!"

* * *

Given the passage of time, Cloud had expected more things to change – at least, enough to make some sort of distinction. But the path was the same: every landmark, every sign. It was almost as though he had never left. And he hated it.

The Coliseum Gates, just as predicted, were closed and locked tight. Parked in front of them was a noticeably young pack of bikers – the local gang of Pegasus Riders, from the look of it – and they glared lazily at the agent's approach, feigning disregard for the man and the one following him.

Meeting glare with glare, Cloud pulled out the token Sora had handed to him and brandished it for their viewing pleasure. "I'm expected."

The unspoken leader was a gangly fellow with the words "Pain & Panic" emblazoned into his motorcycle's bicolor hubcaps. He continued to maintain his look of disinterest – a poor attempt, what with the uncertain wariness creeping at the edge of his facade – but reached up with a white-knuckled fist to bang three times against the locked Gates. Then he dropped the fist to drape over his handlebars in what Cloud conceded was a juvenile manner of posturing.

Hidden mechanisms ground together, long and obnoxiously loud before the Gates themselves finally swung open. The man who stepped out to greet them was more dignified than his ragtag group of guards. His long blood red robes and baggy slacks hid little of the veteran fighter they were wrapped around, and the hand holding the long, serrated blade over his shoulder was a map of calluses. This man took one look at the Pegasus Riders, then another at Cloud. With but a small nod of acknowledgment, he turned and stepped back behind the Gates. When Cloud and Leon followed, no one saw fit to stop them.

The Gates creaked shut behind them, leaving the passageway dark and hidden from the sunlight. The air was cool, but with a stifling humidity that did little to calm the nerves as the pair followed their guide from one chamber to the next. When they came at last to a large room with a circular pool glowing in emerald light, their guide crossed the room and knocked on a different set of doors. They swung apart noiselessly, as smoothly as the shadows themselves, and from within stepped forth the true master of this dark place.

Dressed regally in his black tunic and toga, the master's smile was thin and vaguely malicious as he raised his hands in dramatic welcome.

"_Kiddo_!" he bellowed in a zealously friendly manner. "_Great_ to see ya! How've you been?"

"Save it, Hades," Cloud snapped. He brandished the token a second time, then cast it contemptuously to the floor. "You called for me. I came. What is it you want?"

The curved key shaped in the likeness of a skeletal dragon's neck skittered and slid like a wretched insect, tripping over sandaled feet before coming to a halt an inch off. The faux smile twisted into an ugly sneer as Hades eyed his own summons mark before disdainfully kicking it out of his way. It skidded into the shadows and disappeared, dismissed to be forgotten.

"They just all gotta leave home and come back thinking they're _so-o-o-o_ big," he grumbled aloud. Then, in a condescending tone, "Forgotten your place already, boy?"

"I know exactly where my place is."

"Is that so? A little lost puppy decides to follow you home, and suddenly you're my equal?"

A soft growl rumbled through the dark, near-empty room as Leon stepped forward. Cloud's arm immediately shot out to stop him, his eyes never leaving the dark lord.

"He is not my slave," he spat. "And I am not yours."

Hades' sneer only widened. "You really think so? Seriously?"

Cloud did not back down, but the truth was where it was: all he needed was to take one look at the Fatal Crest and he had obeyed its summons like a trained pet. It was a strike against him; he could not win this one.

"What do you want, Hades?" he demanded instead. "Say it or I'm gone."

At first he was grateful that – for once – Hades did not take his time to gloat. Then, giving all of it deeper thought, he realized it could only mean that whatever the dark lord had in mind, it was something even he was impatient to see fulfilled.

"My sources tell me that Don Corneo's placed a sizable bounty on your head," the man told him. For a second he looked like he might laugh. "_Really_, boy? All the crooks out there and you had to piss off the fattest fish in the sea? I'm so proud of you I could _cry_…!" And quickly enough without room for interruption, the dark lord continued on. "Well, here's the good news for you, kiddo: there's that one teensy, weensy, but ever so crucial bit of a tiny detail you're wanting us to forget, isn't there? I still own you."

Every fiber of his being burned in his rage, but Cloud managed to hold his tongue. The dark lord was on to something despite his agendas – that much was obvious.

"Whatever it was you did wrong to him, we both know Don Corneo won't try to touch what's mine. Technically, that means you and yours are under my protection. So here's my offer: you come back and stick to the terms of our deal this time, and I'll forget you tried to run out on me."

"… I can't kill Hercules for you anymore," the agent reminded him carefully. "No one can."

"Not a problem, my boy," Hades replied a little too easily. "I've got someone else in mind at the moment. Just do your job, and I'll consider our accounts closed."

"And what if I refuse?"

"Well, I'll still have to collect, won't I?" Right then, ocher eyes narrowed upon a different target. "And if not you…"

He was looking directly at Leon.

"_Don't_…!" Cloud uttered, too late to trap the traitorous creep of fear in his voice. "He has no part in this."

"Oh, but _you_ brought him here, my boy," Hades drawled smugly. "You _made_ him part of this."

The agent felt a second gaze burning into the back of his head. He dared to look back, and found silver eyes staring intently without wavering. Now more than ever, he knew exactly what the fool was thinking … and he couldn't let it happen. He just couldn't.

"So tell me, kiddo," Hades interrupted his thoughts, a hateful smile upon his face, "what's it gonna be?"

* * *

At the familiar creaking of the Coliseum Gates, the sharpshooter "Cerberus" – second to hold the title – opened his eyes slowly and peered out the window next to him. Sure enough, the pair he had found for his employer were stepping out. There was no following ruckus, a good enough hint for him that he need not do a thing. Regardless, he lifted his handgun and pointed it in their direction, peering through the scope to get a slightly better view; it wasn't much of an improvement, but Hades still didn't trust him enough to tolerate a sniper rifle that close to his abode.

He picked out first the sight of blond spikes, before the man moved out of the small circle and cross-hairs. The other who followed him came into view then, and stopped … and then he looked up directly at the sharpshooter. Despite the cloak that covered his frame and the hood that hid his features, Cerberus nevertheless felt the other's hard gaze upon him, watching him and waiting for his move.

Smirking, the sharpshooter tipped his hat in greeting. After a moment's pause, the cloaked figure raised one hand and crudely saluted him in return, earning an amused chuckle.

"Ooh," the man commented lewdly in response to the finger he could just make out. "Naughty."

The hand came back down, and the cloaked figure continued after his leader. The sharpshooter watched them go until they turned a corner, and at last lowered his gun again. Pulling his hat over his eyes once more, he closed them and resumed his rest. As fun as it had been thus far, it wasn't his turn at the action just yet. But when it was, he would be ready.

* * *

After all that had transpired from one point to the other, it was hard to shake the feeling that they had been – very suddenly – abandoned to their fates.

The last time Sora had seen the agent and his partner, they had traded some words with Phil. Then they were gone again, and the previously adamant trainer was singing a whole different tune. As the agent had promised them, they received basic training from the short and rotund man who – as it turned out – was an experienced coach and knew what he was doing. Riku and Kairi had dove into the training with little protest.

When he went looking for Phil instead, he found their new teacher busy with a roster in one hand and a pen in the other.

"Hey, Phil?"

"What do you want, pipsqueak?" the irritable man asked distractedly. "Bunch of barrels too much for ya?"

"Actually, I wanted to ask about-"

"Your boss is off keeping his end of the deal," Phil interrupted at once. "So you help me keep mine by getting back to your training."

Sora didn't budge. Finally but with a low grumble of complaint, the trainer looked up from the roster.

"I'm not letting you go watch them, kid. Direct orders from your boss himself," he told him. Then he added, "He also wanted me to tell you that if you've got time to meddle, then you've got time to settle your own business. Whatever that means."

Immediately Sora turned to look back at where his friends had tag-teamed to smash one of the pots. He fidgeted in place, then gave up at last with a sigh.

"So … training, huh?"

"Kid, I've got two words of advice for ya." And then Phil's finger jabbed back at the training square. "Hit that barrel."

Still unable to figure out the man's logic and no longer trying to, Sora obliged him and headed back to where the pots and barrels were waiting. In time to watch a cracked barrel roll by, he quickly found the cause of it. Riku was practically dancing – he held the training sword as though it were a Struggle bat, but each strike was meaningful and intentional. And with every successful shatter of wood or ceramic, the boy laughed with excitement. He was obviously enjoying this.

It wasn't making the truth any easier to tell.

"Hey Sora!" and he looked up to find the older boy grinning at him in playful challenge. "Race ya!"

And without bothering to wait, Riku tackled another barrel. The sudden itch of impatience hurried Sora to find another one and do the same, and the following rush of adrenaline was almost enough to help him forget. Almost.

* * *

The Olympus Coliseum's Preliminary Tournament was usually an affair not worth as much attention – it was a single mass elimination round, designed to root out the weakest first and leave only the truly strong ones to duke it out for the grand prize. The local champion Hercules had managed to draw the crowds before, but ever since he rededicated his time to helping his wife raise their brand new son, there seemed little promise for a good show.

But then the rumors spread like wildfire, by legit as well as darker sources, cautioning the usual audience not to miss even that first round. Most of them were gamblers, and the hinted return of old hands and decent fighters in the ring warmed their loose pockets and purses with the possibility of better; of more. On the day itself, the seats filled. They weren't disappointed.

Among the dominantly male crowd was a girl lightly dressed in a green tube top and tan shorts, unimaginatively hailing herself as the "Great Ninja Yuffie". She was a cocky little thing, but she brandished her weapon – a black throwing star almost as big as her – like a trained warrior. She swung with confidence, and she milked the crowd for all she was worth, absolutely besotted with both the action as much as the attention the arena provided her. She was a newbie, but no real stranger to anyone who had heard of her reputable father.

The fighter with the moniker "Galian Beast" was vaguely familiar. A blond man in a tattered red cape, wielding a golden gauntlet in his left hand and a massive Buster Sword in his right. His was the look of a local underworld legend from a few years ago. He fought beside a rogue going simply by "Steely Blade", an unfamiliar brunet who opted for pugilism – at least, for this round. Despite word that the legendary gladiator of before had fought alone on most part, the two-man team complemented one another well, every move speaking of true experience and skill in the ways of combat.

But the warrior princess was still a naïve baby girl on her first trip to the city without Daddy to hold her hand. The Galian Beast wielded his sword with a noticeable clumsiness, as though unused to his own choice of weapon. The aggressive rogue he was partnered with started favoring his left arm halfway into the match. There was no true certainty in sight – they were good, but not one of them seemed the best.

Yet when the competition fell apart, they were among those still standing.

The announcer fired up the audience and competitors alike one final time – fueling the excitement to last into the actual tournament – and then declared the Preliminary over. The losers dragged themselves away in disgrace, the winners afterward in various stages of exhaustion.

As the Galian Beast led his partner out of the arena, he glared openly at the sight of a Pegasus Rider distributing fat pouches of munny between five of their defeated opponents. The gangster smirked back, implying his knowledge at who exactly was in charge here.

They all went their separate ways.

* * *

When they finally reached the lobby, Cloud pushed his Guardian to sit in one of the available chairs. "Think you can get those belts off on your own?"

Nodding tensely, Leon went to work on the first buckle at his forearm. Cloud watched him for a moment, then started his search through the immediate area for a medical kit of some kind; Phil – in a moment of grateful charity – had mentioned there would be one with their name on it. Sure enough, he recovered it from their allotted chest in the corner, and he briefly acquainted himself with its well-stocked interior before selecting two rolls of gauze wrap.

Just as he snapped the kit shut, a gloved hand extended his way and presented him a thick roll of black tape. Cloud looked up at the man who now stood before him, and then reached forward to accept the offering.

"… Thanks," he uttered, straightening to step around the other. "Did Hades send you to check on me?"

The man did not answer his question, instead cautioning: "Mind your boy's left. The rest of the tournament will be far more intense with each round that passes. Truthfully, you should have changed him out of those belts there before the match."

"He shouldn't have been forced into this in the first place," Cloud countered tersely. His back to the elder veteran, he sat instead facing Leon and, tugging off his clawed gauntlet, took over the removal of the remaining leather straps. He could feel the other's quiet gaze on them, but refused to acknowledge it any further.

At last, the man sighed. "Why did you come back?"

"I had to," the agent answered. "Olympia is the only place I know of that provides the best combat training within the shortest time frame. And I thought …" his movements slowed. "… I thought he'd have forgotten about me by now."

"Why would he?"

"I wasn't half the fighter that I am now. Besides, he's got you. He doesn't need me."

"They don't allow wanted criminals into the arena anymore."

Cloud halted his actions altogether and allowed the escape of a bitter laugh – he had to, before it suffocated him. Finally, he took another long, hard look at the man who was supposed to replace him as Hades' gladiator. "… I never got your name."

"It is Auron," the man replied. Then he added, "And I only know you as the Galian Beast."

"I'll prefer it stay that way."

The answer earned a questioning glance from Auron's good eye. "Who are you trying to hide yourself from?"

"My employers, my enemies …" Cloud shrugged dismissively. "Just about everyone."

This time Auron's eye narrowed in disapproval. "Would the Organization not have come to your aid?"

Immediately Cloud returned the look with a glare of his own, suddenly wary of exactly how vulnerable his status was turning out to be.

"I'm an old man, Galian. I've seen enough to know," Auron explained. "You may have hidden his tag, but your boy isn't the rogue you want us to believe he is."

From his hard gaze, he could tell the veteran didn't want to be lied to, and couldn't really be lied to anyway. With that knowledge in mind, Cloud conceded.

"Is that why you seem so disappointed in me, 'old man'?" he challenged instead, earning a quiet grunt.

"I imagine escaping Hades' grasp in the first place wasn't easy. I expected more from you than to shackle yourself to that group."

"And yet that's coming from you," Cloud retorted evenly. This time the elder – quite unexpectedly – chuckled at his unsubtle implications.

"At least the devil I serve is honest about what he is." A package swaddled in cloth was laid down on a different chair. "Consider this a professional courtesy. I'm assured that you will know what to do with it."

Boots scratched at the rough floor tiling as Auron turned to go. Apparently done with the conversation, he left as peaceably as he had entered. In the tense silence that followed, the privacy of the moment was returned to them, and Cloud resumed sliding the leather bands free in the soft chiming of metal against metal.

Without a complaint beyond the squinting of his right eye, Leon automatically reached forward and grasped a handful of the chain links winding around his arm, pulling them out of the way. Cloud's eyes followed their length, from one end – a weighted leather cuff just loose enough to ride partway up his left forearm – to the other – a clasp attaching cuff and chain to the nickel choker that replaced the missing pendant: thick metal links wrapping a wide plate over his throat and fastened in place by a cylinder lock. There was no name on the tag; all that marked it was an engraving that appeared to be a melting black skull… Hades' brand.

It no longer mattered that the purpose of training three kids made them unable to leave, nor did it matter that the mission itself rendered them incapable of calling on any friends from higher places. Had he been by himself, Cloud was fairly certain he would have grudgingly surrendered to his unfinished bondage and passively resisted the dark lord while he plotted his escape. But Hades had opted to collar the Guardian instead, and as long as it was there, it marked the man as his property to reclaim. Leon was his hostage with only one means of ransom. They were both trapped here.

Not trusting himself to speak, Cloud snatched up one of the three rolls and unraveled it. Methodically, he wound first the gauze wrap over Leon's left hand, wrist, and most of his forearm, then he secured the bandaging in place with the roll of black tape, his only pause to ensure neither material would bunch or pinch uncomfortably with the Guardian's movements.

Looking over the completed bandaging, Cloud imagined Vexen would go through the roof if he only knew that all his hard work was about to be laid to waste within a single tournament. But then Leon released his hold and the cuff slid back over its former place about his wrist, and it suddenly wasn't funny anymore. His left hand dropped to his side, carelessly discarding the nearly bare rolls to the floor.

_I shouldn't have brought you with me. Not even getting captured or killed would have been worth this._

"I would have come after you anyway."

"You think I don't know that?" he snapped in retort.

Leon was quiet again, not rising to the challenge – not giving him that release of anger that he wanted… and needed. He watched him, trying to think of how to explain but unable to find the words for it. In the end, it was the eyes that did the talking. And when Cloud allowed the eyes to state their piece, he relented.

"This has nothing to do with that," he insisted. "You didn't deserve imprisonment. Any man with the right amount of sense would have seen that."

"I've wasted most of my life in the company of men who chose only to see," Leon answered. "And I would have lost more of it until you came, and you acted."

"… even if it had been because I was selfish, this just proves further that you don't owe me anything."

"So go with what you just said: that this has nothing to do with it. And you're right – it doesn't. I fight and kill for you. You gamble and risk everything for me. The way I see it, we'll always owe each other. This," the choker jingled under his finger's scratching. "This changes none of it."

"… I won't leave you behind for this mess."

"Then I trust you'll find a way to get us all out." Then, without waiting for the pause that would have come, Leon turned to look at the package. "He left you a weapon, you know."

"No, I didn't," Cloud answered, his attention drawing to the bundle of cloth as well.

"The oil job is still new."

Just a passing comment, but it was a subtle reminder that whatever it was in there, it had been brought to them with a specific purpose in mind – a tool to further their efforts for the given assignment. Despite that, it made it easier for Cloud to reach over and unravel the cloth without too much apprehension. At least he had the assurance that it wasn't meant to sabotage them.

Yet one look at the offering, and Cloud knew it wasn't meant for him. No, it was meant to further insult him for his choices and his mistakes. Still, he had to admit, he couldn't ask for something better.

"I'm going to need your other arm for a moment."

The brunet spared him any troublesome questions as he went to work, his only involvement restricted to his fingers in helping to get the contraption fitted properly.

When they were done, a long, thin Mythril claw poised itself for battle, secured at his wrist by a tough leather bracer and stabilized by a firm hold on its bar grip. Looking down at the newly adorned weapon, Leon seemed uncertain about its presence, but not awkward about its weight – to Cloud's knowledge, there hadn't yet been a killing tool the Griever had proved unfamiliar with.

"I can't really pull my punches with this," he complained lightly.

"And you're not going to," Cloud answered. "Not if we're planning to survive this tournament long enough to reach our target."

Leon grunted his acknowledgment, then added, "Didn't think I'd see the day when a major crime lord would trouble himself over a kid."

"Kisaragi is the name of the empire in Wutai," Cloud explained. "If one of them – not their servants, but family personally – enters Hades' turf without a courtesy call, it means the empire plans to expand into this territory. It means war. Coming here, Godo's daughter is either stupid and impulsive, or just stupid. Either way, Hades wants her disposed of as a warning for the rest of them to stay out."

"Clearly he's thought this through, then," Leon contributed, still playing with his claw. "Kill her in an alley and her family will be forced to retaliate, but kill her in a public arena and it can easily be written off as an unfortunate accident."

"Exactly."

"Is this what happened when he wanted you to deal with Hercules?"

"… Yes."

Olympia and the Coliseum had been of a different world, then. It had still been a sanctuary undisturbed by tourism, and in a situation like that there were only two leaders who saw what they wanted out of that place: Hades wanted it to start his empire, grow it fast and set its roots so deep that he'd never be unearthed. Hercules' father Zeus had wanted his home to stay a home not just for himself and his son, but for his _descendants_ to grow up right and straight and good. Then of course, Hades had found a small sprout of a boy looking for a break, and while Hercules was the strongest man alive, he would never think to hurt a kid – even if that kid was willing to kill him by any means necessary.

Now Zeus was only a heroic figure, remembered with helpless statues vulnerable to the smallest birds. His son was complacent and content to settle down with his fame, fortune and a family instead of continuing his father's legacy. The threat was no longer there, and thus the killing was no longer necessary.

Even if the assassination _had_ succeeded then, instead of forcing Hades to wait and outlive Zeus' era, Hercules was then as Yuffie was now: A target. A means to an end. It wasn't personal. It was just business. At the end of the day, it was just another job they needed to get done.

In that vein of truth, Auron hadn't exactly been wrong about how similar this task was to what he usually did for his original employers. Ugly as it may be.

The announcer was calling. It was time to get back to work.

"Ready?"

Metal bits jingled as they shifted and resettled into place. "Yeah."

Waiting for them in the arena was another team, the first of their actual opposition that wasn't in Hades' pocket. There were four of them – a paladin, a dragoon, a knight and a monk – each one armed with a different weapon and calling themselves the "Power Wild Pack". Cloud decided they had the look of an after-school teen band. They were punks. Amateurs.

Behind him, Leon stood straight and relaxed, unhindered by the added weight of the weapon strapped to his right arm. He carried himself easily, as though he had been, by all original intentions, born for the blade.

Cocky, smirking faces of wannabe champions on one side. The cold, calculating stare of a waiting predator on the other.

"So … think you can handle this many?"

Leon's retort was a scoff and nothing else, more than their immediate competition deserved. Still, for a bunch of amateurs, it never hurt to exercise some caution just in case. Nothing was more embarrassing than losing to blind, stupid luck.

"Leave me one, then," Cloud told him. Already he had his eye on the paladin with the greatsword. "That one."

Leon quirked a brow at him. _What – you're fighting too?_

Cloud shrugged. "They're just kids. The least we could do is throw them a bone."

A sudden strike flew out, interrupting banter in favor of more serious action. Before the shining steel edge could meet with the hem of the tattered red cloak, an equally new edge met it in mid-strike, the force knocking the both of them back.

The dragoon stood with a slight hunch, his heavy lance drooping from his lax grip behind him. "Steely Blade" crouched on all fours, his armed right lifting at an angle from the ground.

A silence fell over the arena. From the announcer, from the competitors, even the audience – an unspoken respect for that lull. Just a moment's formality before the ridiculously clean earth was baptized once more in blood and sweat.

The "Galian Beast" pulled the Buster Sword free from its sheath and held it before him. The Pack tensed, bringing their own weapons up in defensive stances. Metal hummed through the tense air in preparation for their song.

"Go on, Griever," Cloud issued the call – quiet and serious. "Make them bleed."

* * *

In a rush of wind, wood struck wood with a loud clap. Both practice swords jolted in unison, each one's wielder unaccustomed to the feel of the actual impact.

"_Come on!_" Phil hollered, his excited movements curiously resembling a stotting goat. "You wimps fight like a bunch of girls!"

"Thank you."

"And keep up the good work, Missy. You two! Do better, why don't ya?"

Taking a moment to wipe some sweat from his brow, Riku shrugged and raised his stick into the attack stance Phil had taught him earlier, his free hand beckoning Sora to come at him again. Releasing a deep breath, Sora took his own practice sword in both hands and readied himself in a more defensive stance.

A second passed. Then another. Then both boys leaped at one another with sticks swinging. Wood clapped sharply, and at once they parted, and then Phil was complaining again.

"No, no, _no!_ This ain't no slap fight! Hit like you mean it! You hit those barrels harder than this!"

Riku hesitated, then held up his stick. "You know we could put each other's eyes out with these things, right?"

"That's. The. _Point!_" Phil snapped. "Ya ain't learning the one-and-two here! You're learning to _fight,_ and that means you gotta learn to mess somebody up _bad_!"

The boys stared at each other, and then Riku was the first to lower his weapon completely.

"Okay, seriously, breaking some pots is one thing, but I don't want to hurt Sora. What will I tell his Mom?"

Phil groaned dramatically and palmed his face with both hands. "Aw… for the _love_ of…"

"Try giving them a break, Phil," Cloud's voice suddenly supplemented as he at last made his presence known. "Knowing you, they've been at this all day already."

"Hey. You wanted me to teach them. I'm teaching them," Phil griped. Then, as an afterthought, "It's only been the better of two days anyway."

"Give them a break."

"You were younger and you didn't need one."

"I was training to fight and survive my battles alone," Cloud pointed out. "They don't have to."

Phil looked ready to argue further, but something stopped him. It could have been anything Sora had not yet learned to read – a hand gesture, a bit of body language, even the slightest quirk in the facial expression – but then Phil went from irritation to exasperated amusement in an instant.

"Damn kid, if you want to talk to me all quiet-like, will it kill ya to just _say so_?"

"… Maybe."

And just like that, amusement was gone as well. Phil turned back to them and barked a new order: "That's all for the day – and if you lot are so soft you gotta be hurting before even starting tomorrow, don't come crying to me!"

The wooden practice swords clattered back into their holding stand before the three youths staggered away to their sleeping quarters.

"I don't know about you guys," Kairi started, her hand combing through sweat-drenched hair, "but I could use a shower, and then sleep."

"I gotta eat," Riku griped sorely. "Then shower. Then sleep. Or maybe I'll just sleep and then sleep some more."

"If you are, I'm glad I'm not bunking with you."

"Oye…"

Whatever unspoken retort Riku chose to go with was lost to Sora at that point. Behind them, not far from the training grounds, he could see the man who was his mentor talking to the man who was his teacher. Frowns deepened, eyes shifted – it looked all too much like his bi-monthly evaluation day back in school for his personal comfort.

"Hey Sora," Riku suddenly called to him. "You coming?"

"Uh…" He looked back at his friends, then once more at the talking pair. The second Cloud lifted his eyes and caught him, he decided the better course of action. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

Then Phil chose that moment to pick up his training weapon from the stand and point vaguely at it, and the boy quickened his pace.

And back where they were, the two waited patiently until the three students rounded the corner and disappeared. Then Phil carelessly chucked the stick back where it belonged with a haughty snort.

"Works on 'em every time," he declared, already turning and hopping up the stairs to the veranda. Popping open a chest, he rummaged through it as the agent followed him up. "Now where did I put that… ah! Here it is."

"Fast work," Cloud commented lightly in appreciation. Phil puffed his chest.

"Thank your lucky stars Hermes owes me a few favors. You could have easily waited half a year otherwise." Producing the parchment, he unrolled it with dramatic flair. "Have a look."

There it was in ink – the proof that Cloud had been looking for: the Don _was_ after him… except…

He frowned at the details that were displayed before him, trying to place exactly what it was that bothered him. "… Something just doesn't fit here," he finally voiced.

"Yeah, I know. It's sad, ain't it?" Phil uttered sympathetically, his eyes more focused on the parchment's portrait. "They just couldn't get your nose right."

Choosing to ignore him, Cloud studies the fine print a little more closely. That one little detail continued to elude him as he scanned word after word again. It had to be there, he knew; something that Hades was not telling him for whatever reason.

"Tell Hermes to keep digging," he told Phil this time, straightening again. "But not just about what's going on in the Don's circles. I need to know what Hades has been up to lately – any transactions with the outside, any meddling with other things-"

"Whoa, wait. 'Other' things?"

"He's rigged your games. Thought you might like to know," Cloud supplied bluntly. Phil turned a brilliant shade of red and was about to launch into a series of more colorful curses when the agent interrupted him quickly. "Phil, this is important. Something is going on here, and I need to know as much as possible or else I go in blind. What nearly happened with Hercules could actually happen this time."

Phil growled, but he sobered quickly in the light of the matter. "… you're not kidding."

"There's too much at stake here," the agent pointed out. "I just can't afford to lose."

"Kid," the trainer reminded him sourly, "you can't really win against the guy who makes the rules. I thought you know that."

"I do," Cloud answered. "And that is why I need to find that loophole while I still can."

* * *

_Chapter commentary coming soon to the deviantArt journal... See you soon!_


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